First of His Name
by Sue-Drae
Summary: Westeros never deserved Tommen, but he was the king that it needed. This answers the what if that has been plaguing me: what if Tommen hadn't killed himself? He had told his grandfather once that he would be a good king. Here, Tommen I gets his justice. It just might take a while. (Feat. Sansa/Tyrion later, no Jon/Dany)
1. Chapter 1

The Great Sept of Baelor—the Sept that Was—was miles away from the Red Keep, but that didn't keep the noxious fumes from reaching King Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name. The acrid smoke was heavy with the memories of those the unnatural fires had burned in their hunger, and its stench burned Tommen's nose as he forced himself to breathe in. This, in the air around him, was Margaery. This was what remained of his beloved wife, her brother, the High Sparrow, and so many others. The fire didn't care who was innocent and guilty; it merely burned and devoured, ripping King Baelor's great legacy to the ground and returning all those lords and smallfolk to the ash. If he looked out towards the horizon, he could still see the contrast of the green wildfire against the black smoke.

Tommen by nature was introspective. He supposed some long-winded maester had written on the effects of birth order before; it was perhaps natural for a younger brother to be less active than the older to avoid undue tensions or strains of power. He had been younger brother to Joffrey, whose cruelty he had been powerless to curb and who was gone now. He had been younger brother to Myrcella, whose gentleness had shown him that there was still good in this world and who was gone now. Joffrey and Myrcella had been interred in the Great Sept and were now ashes with Margaery.

Tommen had not been born to be king. He had never wanted to be king. He became king through the death of a brother who, though cruel, was still blood. He was able to marry his queen because of that death and had in turn lost her to death. For the length of his rule thus far, he had been powerless, acting still as the younger brother and able only to reflect on the actions of greater men. Now, standing on the balcony and staring into the black and green of what remained of his city, Tommen knew that those greater men were rendered into ash as well.

He supposed he was numb. Ser Gregor—or what was left of him after Qyburn's ministrations—had left once the Sept had fallen, leaving him alone in this void. That was for the better, though.

Tommen wasn't a fool. He knew what the Mountain's presence meant, knew what his temporary house arrest had meant. His mother had known. His mother had a hand in this horrific act, in the extinguishing of a great house and the murder of hundreds—if not thousands—of civilians. The people who had perished, and the people who were still crying out against the din of the bells, were his people. No, they were _Margaery's_ people; it was she who had been the first to truly care about the smallfolk, she who would have striven to right this injustice. But Margaery was gone now. She was ash and smoke, connected and one with her people in a way that had never been possible before.

The void pressed around him, threatening to smother him. The darkness called, and the Stranger suddenly bore Margaery's face and spoke with her sweet voice. Death would reunite him with Margaery, with the woman he hadn't gotten to grow old with, to laugh away years with, to raise a family with, and it would be so easy. Unbidden, Tommen's eyes dropped to the welcoming ground. At this height, he wouldn't feel a thing. He would fly for a long moment, and then he would rejoin Margaery.

He paced away from the edge that beckoned and took his crown in his hands. His crown, he mused, wasn't his at all; it was another thing that he had gained from death. He remembered sitting at Joffrey's wedding, watching his brother's eyes bleed and his lips purple. He remembered his brother's hands—hands that had beat servants and skinned animals, hands that had been raised in anger and clenched into fists prepared and willing to strike without warning—clutching at his throat as if his very skin had suddenly grown too tight for him to breathe. This crown wasn't something that Tommen had earned like his father had, but rather something that had been forced onto him. It was an artifact in this game of thrones, one that cursed its bearer with tragedy and death because no one truly won. Whenever the crown was worn by a violent or weak mind, everyone lost.

The Stranger beckoned again, promising to bring him home to Margaery.

But he hesitated, unfailingly true to his introspective nature.

Whenever the crown was worn by a violent or weak mind, everyone lost.

Unbidden, his grandfather's words drifted through his mind: _A good king must be just. Orys the First was just; everyone applauded his reforms, nobles and commoners alike, but he wasn't just for long. He was murdered in his sleep after less than a year by his own brother. Was that truly just of him, to abandon his subjects to an evil that he was too gullible to recognize?_

Tommen had once believed that he would be a good king. He had believed that he could rise to be better than the examples Tywin had listed; but he was no better than Orys. He hadn't recognized the threat to his people, to his wife.

His mother.

The void left him all at once. The encroaching black receded all at once, leaving Tommen alone with the harsh reality: if he were to die now, his mother would be the only inheritor to the crown left. She who had destroyed the Great Sept and so many untold lives would sit the Iron Throne with no one to stop her from terrorizing the smallfolk that Margaery so cared for.

Tommen lowered his brother's crown onto the table where his uneaten breakfast still lay. He could not die, not yet. If Margaery did await him in the Stranger's arms, how could he greet her knowing that he had left her murderer the crown?

Tommen loved his mother as any boy did. It was she who had cared for him, had comforted him during the Blackwater. She had tried her best to shelter him from Joffrey's cruelty. She had shielded him from his father's drunkenness. She had encouraged him to spend time with steady and strong Uncle Jaime. She had borne him, feed him from her breast. He loved her.

He also loved Margaery. He loved Margaery as a boy loves his wife: truly and deeply. Margaery had entered his sphere in the darkness of Joffrey's death, and had lifted him from the powerless little boy he had had been at their engagement to one of the pillars of the kingdom. One of the pillars of the kingdom had already fallen thanks to his mother; if he fell now, the kingdom and all its millions of people could be lost as well to the smoke. Tommen lowered himself to sit in front of the crown. He still loved Margaery; he'd never stop loving her. She was the lighthouse in the Stranger's darkness that would eventually guide him home, but he still had a voyage to make before he could make safe harbor in her arms. If he had been the one to burn in the sept, he would wish for her to truly live and carry on their work. He would wait patiently in the dark for her; he only prayed that she would forgive him for the wait.

Time passed as Tommen sat in that chair, hands brought against his mouth as he stared into the crown. It had been dented in Joffrey's fall and, though the metal had been beaten into proper shape, Tommen could still identify where the crown had been damaged. Gold was a soft material, a weak material. Its value was arbitrary, based on a rarity that could shift if a new vein were discovered. Staring at the golden thing with its stylized antlers, rubies and black diamonds, Tommen released a soft scoff and got to his feet.

Joffrey hadn't been a good king. His cruelty had given him an illusion of strength, but Tommen knew better than to believe the illusion. Joffrey's golden crown, and the weakness of the metal, reflected the weakness of his brother's demented mind. Tommen turned away from the crown and the memories contained within its precious gemstones, leaving it where it sat on the table. King Tommen I was young, but he wasn't dead yet and that was more than could be said for his predecessors. So long as he lived, he would strive to be the king that Margaery believed he could be: a good king.

* * *

Post 15:09, 4.4.18

Updated 15:50, 4.9.18

Updated 11:57, 5.26.18

Updated 16:50, 3.12.19


	2. Chapter 2

There was no small council left. In his negligence, Cersei had had free reign to fill the small council with members loyal only to her, and then assassinate the rest in the Great Sept's destruction. As he walked the halls of the Red Keep, Tommen's mouth thinned into a hard line. His mother had been the true power of the crown since his coronation, and he'd been enough of a fool to ignore it. He allowed her to sit in his stead on small council meetings, leaving him woefully unprepared to rule now that Cersei was identified as the obstacle to peace. Who, amid all this death and destruction, was left alive to turn to? Who could be trusted?

More immediately, his city was in chaos. The fires still burned, still consuming all within their reach. The only positivity Tommen could muster was that most of the wildfire used to destroy the sept had burned off quickly, leaving natural flames that—while still deadly—were much easier to extinguish.

The throne room was awash with panicked nobility, but silence fell upon the crowd as people began to recognize Tommen's unannounced entrance to the hall. He strode to the Iron Throne with purposeful steps, trying to mask a scowl at the ugly chair that had triggered so much pain and fear. Before he could be properly introduced, Tommen hardened his resolve and straightened his back.

"Lords and ladies of the court. You are all aware by now of the destruction of the Great Sept of Baelor. Justice will be swift for all those who have perpetrated this horrific and treasonous act, but justice must be stayed for the sake of those still in the vicinity of the sept. I bid you now, as your king and as a representative of the people of Westeros, send all your nonessential staff—guards, cooks, handmaidens, anyone who can lift a bucket—to aid the City Watch and the Kingsguard in fighting the remaining fires. We will not know this attack's ultimate toll until the ashes have begun to settle, but each moment we waste now results in further damage and loss of life. If you are able, I beg you: join me in saving this city from those who would destroy it."

Silence rang out in the throne room for a brief moment before Tommen began to walk right back out, Ser Balon and Ser Arys at his back. Once the young king was moving, the spell broke and the lords and ladies of the court melted away to allow him passage. Whispers surrounded Tommen as he walked the familiar paths of the Red Keep towards the exit closest to the Sept that Was. He, after all, was able to lift a bucket.

* * *

Ser Jaime returned to a city tightly bound with fear and grief. His mouth had dried as the smoke pillar rose on the horizon, a long-dead king's words echoing throughout his mind and panic seizing at his heart. _Cersei. Tommen. Cersei. Tommen._

Leaving blunt commands with Bronn, amounting roughly to _deal with those fucking fires_ , Jaime spurred his horse to the Red Keep as quickly as he dared to travel through the crowded streets. All around him, growing louder and more desperate as he neared the site of the Sept, he heard the sounds of crying and screaming of men, women, and children that had been too near. Hell, anywhere in this gods-forsaken city was too near to the Sept. Jaime navigated his steed through the once-familiar streets, now dark with falling ash. As he passed what had once been the Sept, he slowed his mount against his better instinct. The destruction was absolute. The delicate stained glass and graceful marble construct that had made this city less of a shithole for generations was little more than rubble. People rushed around in the chaos of the remaining fires, passing among them buckets of water and bundles of supplies and, occasionally, a person that had been unlucky enough to be caught in the periphery of the blast. With a dry swallow, Jaime was sure that the population of one-handed men—hell, men with any sort of deformity or handicap—in King's Landing had skyrocketed.

Before the Sept that Was vanished behind him, a flash of white caught his eye, contrasting sharply with the charred environment and ashen people that picked through the wreckage. Jaime studied the flicker of white closer, recognizing the knight bearing the white cloak as Ser Balon, and his heart squeezed uncomfortably. Why was one of Tommen's personal Kingsguards in this place?

The unwelcome hypothesis— _Tommen was here, in the Sept_ —prevailed upon Jaime to turn his horse around and make his way towards where the knight worked, accepting buckets of water from a commoner and dousing the flames he could reach.

"Ser Balon!" Jaime cried over the shouts of _water_ and _over here_ and _another one_. Balon Swann looked up and, recognizing Jaime after a moment, his face shifted with relief.

"Ser Jaime, you've returned. Pray your day was better than ours," Balon japed.

"The king?"

"Ser Arys is with him, several blocks east last I saw them. He was still in the Red Keep at the time of the explosion, but few others of note escaped."

"Cersei?" Jaime asked, afraid of the answer. When Balon's face—ever so expressive—shifted into a dark scowl, a chill struck Jaime despite the nearby fires.

"The Queenmother was in the Red Keep as well…" Balon seemed uninclined to elaborate, but Jaime needed to hear something to drive the Mad King's voice from his mind. This plot tasted strongly of Aerys, and Jaime knew that only a select number of individuals had known of the king's final plot. There was everyone the king had told, such as the pyromancers and his hand, and then there were the two people Jaime had told: Brienne of Tarth and Cersei.

"And the perpetrators?" Jaime pressed.

"There are rumors, of course, but the king's orders were to deal with the fires first."

If he had more time, Jaime likely would have told Balon his exact opinion of the Kingsguard's vaguely worded answers, but Jaime wasn't willing to trust even honest Balon's testimony. He needed to see Tommen. He needed to see _his son_.

Following Balon's directions, Jaime found himself seeking out another flash of white or gold amid the black and brown mess that had once been a street. When he went seven blocks with no white cloaks in sight, fear once again begins to grip him. It was only a woman's call that stopped him from turning around and running Balon through for a liar.

"Gods bless you, your Grace."

Jaime whipped around, sliding off his horse gracelessly as he moved in the direction of the woman's voice. Her words were garbled by sobs, but even a base Flea Bottom wench could say 'your grace' without mangling the words too much. He tore through the crowd at a furious pace, ignoring the shouts of protest as the men unlucky enough to be in his path were pushed brusquely aside.

Lungs burning with smoke, Jaime finally broke free of the crowd to see a sight that made his heart ache. Tommen, the sweet boy that he was, was sat among a small group of children with a bucket of water at his feet and a washcloth in hand, wiping ash and grime from the faces of the children.

A relieved gasp escaped Jaime's lips and his knees threatened to buckle under the tremendous relief. _Tommen's okay. Tommen survived. He's here_.

The rest of King's Landing didn't matter—the kids crowded at Tommen's feet didn't matter—as Jaime staggered forward towards his son. Tommen startled slightly, looking up at his approach, but the surprise melted quickly into relief.

"Uncle Jaime!" Tommen extracted himself from the children, throwing his arms around Jaime without hesitation. Jaime distantly realized that Tommen wasn't wearing a crown on his head. Tommen had also changed his clothing—instead of his usual Baratheon or even Lannister colors, the young king wore entirely black. As the two parted, Tommen noticed Jaime's gaze still latched on his clothing and shook his head, eyes tight.

"Margaery was in the sept. Uncle Kevan as well. Of those invited to the trial, only Mother and I were out of danger."

"Your mother's safe?" Jaime asked, afraid of the answer. His gaze was sharply focused to his son's features, keen enough to see the tightening of Tommen's jaw.

"She's been secured in the castle." Tommen hesitated briefly before continuing. "I am glad you're back… With this attack, I am unsure of whom I can trust."

Had the attack been orchestrated in any other manner, Jaime would have found his father's favorite response to such a question pouring from his lips: family. Unable to resist the growing suspicion he'd felt since seeing the pillar of smoke rising over King's Landing, however, Jaime nodded.

"We can figure that out once my city isn't burning to the ground," Tommen finished with a steel in his eyes that surprised Jaime. In the scant weeks since he'd left King's Landing—or, as Jaime sadly suspected, in the few hours since Tommen had lost his wife to such needless violence—his son had grown into a man. "I have Kingsguard dispersed throughout the area to organize water dispersal and take stock of losses. The City Watch has been commanded to continue their watch over the rest of the populace, and those assigned to the affected sectors are keeping an eye out for criminals who would take advantage of the chaos. Smallfolk and servants of noble houses are most of the force in extinguishing the fires, and I've sent word to the citadel and nearby holdfasts to send what aid they can spare in matters of healers and medicines. The wildfire burned out quickly, but a large expanse of the city has been burned. Luckily, it appears that little in the way of food was destroyed. This was a direct attack on the sept."

"What would you have me do?" Jaime asked curiously. Tommen glanced up and down the street.

"Someone must be sent to Highgarden. Lady Olenna must be informed. Lord Mace and Sir Loras were in the sept with Margaery."

"House Tyrell," Jaime whispered in horror. First the Starks, now the Tyrells… And with the death of Kevan and Lancel, there were no main-line Lannisters left outside of the royal family. Great houses were being swept away one at a time. "Olenna will not stand for this. She will want vengeance."

"She will get justice," Tommen countered forcefully. "I will have _justice_ … Grandfather was right about what is required of a good king. I will not be Orys. Those guilty will sit trial and face due punishment for their crimes. _All_ those guilty."

Jaime reached out to place his hand on his son's shoulder, but Tommen shrugged it away. He retrieved his bucket and washcloth and began walking down the ruined street, looking for the next lost souls in need of help.

* * *

Cersei was concerned, but she was mostly irritated. Tommen was finally free of Margaery, finally free of the High Sparrow and the Faith Militant, so why wasn't he with her? Family was what mattered in this world, and their family was getting smaller and smaller each passing month. Those peasants, hardly more than beasts, were not important. They didn't _matter_. So why was Tommen, her precious boy, out among those rabble? Didn't he remember the riots they'd had not so long ago that had nearly destroyed the royal family? Didn't he remember the violence of the Faith Militant, and the crowds that had spat on his mother as she was paraded through the streets like an animal? Did he truly think that he belonged with such filth?

This was all Margaery's fault. She was sure of it. Jaime had fought entire wars to get back to his rightful place at her side, but he didn't have the distraction of another woman, especially a whore like Margaery Tyrell. But the witch was gone now. Ashes to ashes and all that nonsense. It may take some time, but Tommen would return to his rightful place in the fold. The throne belonged to the Lannisters, and she'd do anything—she'd kill anyone in her way, burn them all—to ensure that everyone in the seven kingdoms knew that.

Despite the chaos inevitable outside the keep's walls, Cersei smiled to herself as she poured herself a glance of wine. Dorne wasn't good for much, but they did know how to make a decent wine and Cersei had the best of vintages for herself. The Targaryen girl could keep her three dragons and her savages, Cersei Lannister was the Queen.

King's Landing was hers; she knew that for certain. People in large quantities were sheep, and sheep were easily quelled. With no High Sparrow to judge, there was no judgement in this world that could strip her of her right to rule. Tommen, the sweet boy that he was, would soon return to her side and accept her counsel. There was no question of if it would happen, only when.

There was a knock on the door and Cersei smiled. She always won, _always_.

"Cersei." His timing was surprising, but Cersei's smile—which had been present since the first explosion rocked the city—widened at the familiar voice. Jaime always came back to her, no matter the odds or the armies standing between them.

"Come in." The smile slipped slightly when Jaime entered her rooms. He was filthy, as if he'd rolled in the ashes of the sept before coming to her side. But it was no matter, a little water would clear them both of this deed. "How was the road?"

"How—How was the road?" Jaime's voice was oddly strained as he echoed her words. "Have you lost your mind? You've destroyed—"

"I've preserved our house. Our family," Cersei interrupted sharply, taking a slow sip of her wine before lowering it to her desk. "The Tyrells would have been the end of us. Now, they have nothing. Only a sad old woman left to mourn. She has no power here any longer."

Thinking of how Tommen's face had shifted when Jaime asked after Cersei, Jaime suspected that Cersei had lost her own power as well, even if she didn't quite realize it.

"Olenna isn't powerless. She still has Highgarden and the Reach. Without her sending food to the city, we'll be starved out in months and you've gone and burned her most compelling reason to keep this city fed. And Tommen—Tommen won't let this stand," Jaime warned. Cersei only let out an airy laugh, unconcerned.

"Tommen is our _son_ , Jaime. Our future. He may have been distracted temporarily, but House Lannister is where he belongs, and he will soon remember that. The small council has been rid of dissenters. The faith has been brought low. There is only us."

She was upon him suddenly, her greedy hands seizing his face as her mouth claimed his. Perhaps it was the wine, or the ash that still covered him, but she was bitter to taste and Jaime pushed her away, unable to keep the disgust off of his face. Cersei's face lit up in surprise before becoming a perfect mask. Jaime's eyes were accusatory, so she turned away. She retrieved her wine, striding towards the window. Smoke still curled in the sky, slow to dissipate and quick to remind everyone of her power.

"You'll see soon enough. I've saved our family. I've done what you were too weak to do."

"If this is what you had to do to _save_ our family, we weren't worth saving."

He left her then, probably to toil at some meaningless task. Maybe he'd bathe, or perhaps he'd return to the Sept that Was and do what he'd been born to do: lead. Either way, it didn't matter. He'd come back to her. He always did.

* * *

The Queen of Thorns had been sitting in an outdoor courtyard, enjoying what may be the last warm day for years, when the news came.

"News," she scoffed to herself when a Lannister of some little branch was brought before her. "When is there ever news from the cesspool of a capitol that I care to hear?"

Her dry humor didn't last long.

Temper is not a word typically associated with the Tyrells of Highgarden, but Olenna was not born a Tyrell. She had been born a Redwyne. _Growing strong_ were not her native words, but the words of her first house— _ripe for victory—_ didn't seem to suit her now either.

The Baratheon words seemed closest to her heart in the quiet moments since that nameless Lannister had skipped out of her sight: _ours is the fury_. There was grief, but the edge of mourning that clung to her heart and made her breath painful and slow was seen through a film of rage. Cersei Lannister had always been an idiot, had always thought herself cleverer than she truly was, but she had irrevocably gone too far now.

House Tyrell would die with her. Her son was dead, her grandson, her granddaughter; and the bitch who murdered them still breathed. The Lannister brat who had delivered the news bandied about words like justice and honor, but Olenna was far too old to fall for that lie. There was only the justice that you made, and she fully intended to see that Cersei reaped what she sowed.

* * *

Posted 15:45, 4.9.18

Updated 16:51, 3.12.19


	3. Chapter 3

Tommen sat in what had once been the meeting chambers of the Small Council. When his grandfather had been Hand to the king, the meeting place had been changed so that the council met closer to the Tower of the Hand. Once Tywin was murdered, however, Cersei ordered the building burned. Two structures, destroyed by his mother's hand… The contemplative frown he'd adopted since returning to the Red Keep deepened. When he closed his eyes, Margaery's hand raked through his hair, her voice chided him about overworking himself. He wondered how long it would take for her voice to slip from his memory.

No. This wasn't the time to dwell on what he'd lost. Everyone lost something to this attack, and he had been luckier than many. He was alive, he was still in a position of influence and power, and he—at least in theory—had the means to exact justice. Whether he would practically have that power remained to be seen.

The door opened.

"Ser Jaime," Balon reported politely, allowing his superior into the room and shutting the door behind him.

"You really should have more than one guard at your side," Jaime counseled. The corner of Tommen's mouth quirked up wryly at the concern in his uncle's voice. "Especially when that one guard is _Balon Swann._ "

"Ser Balon is a capable knight, Uncle. And, in your company, I believe I have two guards." The half-smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Tommen gestured for his uncle to join him at the table. "This room used to house the small council."

"The small council… Kevan had Qyburn stripped of his place on it before his death, didn't he?" Jaime pondered. "Ships, whispers, laws, coin, war, and hand… There's a rather lot of openings, it would seem."

"Grandfather told me once that a wise king listens to his councilors and heeds their advice. I have no councilors left, at least none that are dedicated to the realm… What would you have me do?"

"What I think doesn't matter—"

"As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you are a member of the small council. One of my advisors. Please… Advise me." Tommen was still hardly more than a boy, still far too young to be making commands to much of anyone, but the gods had been cruel. So Jaime took the plea for the order it should have been. His fingertips idly drummed on his metal hand.

"You need to appoint new members to the small council immediately. I can't name anyone I think would be appropriate for most of the positions, but others would be able to. More still would be able to recommend themselves for any numbers of posts, if only for the power of it."

"Yes… I was afraid of that." The soft tapping of Jaime's fingers drew Tommen's gaze downward, though Jaime doubted that Tommen was really seeing what was in front of him, not with that faraway look in his emerald eyes. The silence rang between the two men for just another moment before Tommen's gaze snapped back to his uncle's face. "I want a raven sent to every house in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Saying what, exactly?"

* * *

"A scroll for you, my lady." Maester Wolkan murmuring drew Sansa's attention away from the ledgers sitting in front of her. Jon may be lauded as king in the north, but his head wasn't built for numbers or politics. The tiresome job fell to the acting Lady, but the momentary relief of a distraction fell away at the seal on the scroll. "From the Red Keep."

Of course. Sansa would recognize that seal anywhere. Before she was sold to the Boltons like a prized horse, House Lannister had been at the heart of her nightmares. Still, she thanked Wolkan kindly and watched with sharp eyes as he shuffled away, allowing her to read the latest message in privacy.

A wordless cry tore its way from Sansa's throat. _Margaery_. Burned alive. No matter how fast it was, that was not the way beautiful and graceful Margaery should have died. She should have lived to see her grandchildren training with a master-at-arms that had too great a salary. Her passing should have been marked with an endless ringing of the bells, and a city mourning a single bright star, not mourning and feeling too much to make sense of any of it.

Forcing herself to take a steeling breath, Sansa of House Stark wiped her eyes and continued to read. Once she finished, her heart heavy and her stomach turning, she was on her feet and out of the solar. The king has called upon his bannermen.

 _All of them_.

Walking quickly along the familiar halls of Winterfell—and _oh_ , how she loved to finally feel at home again within these stone walls—Sansa found her way to the courtyard where the men and Brienne often trained. Seeing her brother, Sansa forced herself to breathe in deeply. It would do no one any good to cause a scene where any number of eyes could be watching.

"Jon." Her brother's eyes darted up, a question reflected in those dark pools, and Sansa held up the rolled scroll for him to see. Acknowledging her with a nod, Jon excused himself from the men-at-arms he'd no doubt been soundly beating and came to join her on the balcony.

"Sansa," he greeted with a solemn nod. Sansa's lips quirked into a strained smile; Jon looked so much like their father with his serious demeanor. "What is it?"

In lieu of answering directly, Sansa placed the scroll directly into Jon's hand.

"News from the…" Jon's voice drifted off into stunned silence as he began to read the message. "Is he really—He's calling everyone to King's Landing?"

"All the houses in Westeros. We're to send one representative of the house to parlay with the crown. We're to voice our grievances, and Tommen's promised to correct as much as possible in exchange for recommendations to the small council."

"A trap?"

The part of Sansa that led her to contacting Baelish before the Battle of the Bastards was sure of it. Terrible things happen to Starks that march south, and Sansa wasn't ready to lose any more family to the court's intrigue. Still, she had known Tommen, however briefly. He had been a sweet boy, a kind soul. She remembered the child who had cried when his sister was sent away. She remembered the naïve boy who had told Tywin and Cersei both that he wouldn't want Robb to be killed, regardless of the rebellion. Tommen was, or at least had been, the nicest person she'd met in her imprisonment at the Red Keep. Her memories of Tommen the boy were compelling, but experience still won out. Time spent in King's Landing twisted people into something crueler and madder than their original person, and neither she nor Jon could safely bet that Tommen had somehow been immune to the throne's poison.

"Probably," Sansa settled on. "These aren't Cersei's words, but there's no mention of where she is. If she's still alive, she's a threat to our family."

"So… we're not sending anyone to this gathering?" Jon's voice was clouded with uncertainty and Sansa resisted the childish urge to bite her lip.

"You've been named King in the North, and the fact that we've been contacted at all means someone—even if it's not the king—wants to see the north back in the fold. Which means we're in open rebellion, and winter is coming. We may have a thousand miles between us, but Cersei will not forget about us. She will see us both dead and Winterfell a ruin again if she's given half a chance."

"So we go."

"Of course not. You can't go. You're the King," Sansa spoke slowly, as if to a child. "Someone must go to represent House Stark, but your place is here."

As Sansa spoke, an idea began to form in her mind.

No. It was impossible. She couldn't go. She was needed here—someone needed to maintain the household while Jon held the north together—and she would be the first name on Cersei's death list. Cersei had enjoyed her play when Sansa had been trapped as a dove; she wouldn't be as polite now that Sansa had revealed her claws and won back Winterfell. Getting within a hundred miles of the capitol would seal her death warrant. No, someone else needed to go…

"Brienne will go," she decided.

"No. Brienne is your sworn sword. She will remain at your side and protect you."

"I'm home. I'm as safe as anyone can be. One more body won't matter if Cersei whispers loudly enough to turn the Lannister armies in our direction… Brienne can go in my name. She can go to Tommen, give our condolences and our terms. Like you said, the North won't bleed for southern wars anymore, but we can't be fighting a pointless war when the snows come. The last winter was ten years, and the maesters—"

"I know what the maesters say," Jon interrupted heatedly. "Even if Tommen would be willing to acknowledge our independence, we need his armies. We can't win against what's coming with the bodies we've got."

"Then we'll tell him that."

"Telling him won't matter if he doesn't believe us!"

"Stop yelling at me." Sansa's voice was firm, her eyes chilling as she stared her brother down. A fit of temper would accomplish nothing, not in this game. "You said that you would start listening to me. Start now. Speak to the northern lords and get their grievances. Volunteers can go with Brienne to speak their own house grievances against the crown. Worst case, it's a trap and Brienne will simply have to find a way out. Best case, you might just get the men you need."

"You told me to stop making stupid mistakes."

"I did. This isn't a stupid mistake, it's a calculated risk. Think of it this way: we need to know what's going on in the capitol. This scroll only mentions an attack on the sept, not who was behind it. Everyone with half a brain will know it was Cersei, but we _need_ to know Tommen's opinion on what happened. His mother killed his wife. We might be able to persuade him to see our side."

"And if Tommen—no one whispering in his ear—thinks that the North belongs to the crown?"

"Then his southern army can try to invade the North during the longest winter in living memory, without supplies, money, or bodies provided by the Reach. I've met Lady Olenna Tyrell, and she won't be doing any favors for the crown. She's already—She is more than willing to kill Lannisters."

Jon nearly asked Sansa what she had begun to say, but his sister was already stalking away, the scroll from the Red Keep held tightly within her vice-like grip.

* * *

"A letter for you, your grace." Tommen wasn't exactly sure of the name of the man who held a raven scroll out to him. The Citadel hadn't yet sent a maester to replace Pycelle, whose body had been found by the goldcloaks when searching the tunnels beneath the city and the Red Keep for any remaining caches of wildfire. There were stewards left in the castle—no maester could efficiently run the Red Keep without subordinates to delegate matters unto—but Tommen wasn't naïve enough to believe that the stewards were working as smoothly without structure. Things would begin to slip soon; it was only a matter of determining when and where the first stone would fall.

"Thank you."

The scroll was a welcome distraction, if he were being honest with himself. The letter he'd had sent out to every house was already being answered. The throne room was filled with supplicants; there were so many that Tommen was meeting each representative in an antechamber, allowing the rest to mill around and gossip away from him. He sat at a large table now covered with papers. Most papers were filled with grievances from the houses he'd seen so far, while others had recommendations for small council members. It was enough to give him a headache, and he was hardly more than a few hours into the practice.

He opened the scroll gladly, but his hand stilled at the gently sloping hand it was written in.

"Who is it from?" Jaime asked. His Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who had refused to leave Tommen's side for more than a few minutes at a time since he began hearing grievances. Decidedly out of character, Tommen ignored his uncle.

It'd been long since he'd seen this handwriting, but he'd never forget it. For as kind and gentle as she had been in life, Myrcella had been enormously jealous of Sansa's effortlessly perfect script and had forced Tommen to sit with her as she meticulously copied Sansa's writing. Myrcella had never managed to reproduce Sansa's hand, but she had successfully burned that neat script into Tommen's memory.

 _King Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name. Tommen,_

 _I am so sorry for Margaery's loss. She was a dear friend to me in my time in King's Landing, and I'm sure I don't miss her half as much as you. It is hard living in a place where your loved ones' memories still linger, but I can say from experience that the good memories do begin to outweigh the bad given time and thought. I'll admit to being surprised at your missive. Perhaps writing is foolish, but I thought I should be honest with you, as dishonesty has played a key role in bringing us here. I wish that I could believe your words of peace, but each Stark to go south has paid horribly for it. Still, you were one of the few truly kind people I've met since leaving Winterfell as a girl, and I was glad for your gentleness in my captivity. In faith, I am sending my sworn sword to King's Landing in my name. She speaks with my voice. I hope that the violence that has destroyed our families so completely can be ended with us, but my family has experienced too much horror for me to trust the words of someone that I had briefly known as a child. Forgive me for my candor, for I mean no offense to your person. Be well, and know that you will have friends if your word is true. As the saying goes, the North remembers._

 _Sansa of House Stark_

 _Lady of Winterfell, Wardeness of the North_

Tommen smiled softly at the letter. His mother, he knew, would be furious when she learned of the letter. Truly, knowing the nature of court as he did, Tommen had a good feeling that she likely knew the letter's contents well before it was passed into his hand.

Tommen supposed he was happy for Sansa, but he also knew that the destiny of the North was not separate from the realm. To achieve justice, the reach of the crown could not be restricted by old crimes. Sansa was justified in her caution. Her family had suffered immeasurably under the hands of House Lannister, but Tommen was a Baratheon too. He was raised on drunk stories of Ned Stark's honor, and he was willing to trust in Sansa's word as much as he was able.

"The letter?" Jaime pressed once more. Deciding that there was little harm in it, especially since Jaime was likely to hear about it from someone else, Tommen passed the letter into Jaime's hand.

"From Sansa Stark."

"Stark? Not Bolton? Of course, she and Ned's bastard reclaimed Winterfell," Jaime commented. He read through the letter quickly, eyes hesitating on a place halfway through. Tommen noticed the pause before Jaime could cover his slip, but Jaime explained it without prodding. "I've met Sansa's sworn sword, as have you. Brienne of Tarth. She had been Lady Catelyn's sword before, and swore that she would defend and serve her daughters if they were still living."

"You gave her your sword," Tommen recalled after a moment. "Does she deserve it?"

"She's a skilled warrior, and fiercely loyal. She was at the siege of Riverrun in Sansa's name, trying to persuade the Blackfish to abandon Riverrun to aid Sansa retake Winterfell. She's nearly as stubborn as the Starks, and just as honorable."

"I'll be happy to receive her, then…" Tommen's eyes drifted to the door that led to the throne room. No time like the present… "Well, send in the next one then."

* * *

Brienne of Tarth was not pleased to be leaving Sansa's side once more, heading south in search of another man's armies. She had sworn her sword to Sansa, promised to keep her counsel and obey her commands, but it was difficult to swallow her pride and comply when Sansa sent her away on errands. Her undertaking now was an important errand, of course, but anyone could have handed the Boy King a list of House Stark's criticisms.

As House Stark knew, winter was coming. The company Brienne kept on the road—second sons of lords, bannermen, and servants to attend them—knew that it was important to travel fast and light, with the journey being just under a month in good weather, but the snows were already settling in around Winterfell. If the snowfall continued, they risked being unable to return to the North and no one in the caravan wished to winter in the capitol. Brienne, who had spent more than enough time in the capitol when delivering Jaime to his family, was especially unwelcoming to the idea. Being trapped in a city of millions with little to no food coming in was not where Brienne wished to be. Her place was at Sansa's side, not a thousand miles away, and the obedience of the minor nobility in the caravan did not stay the gnawing discomfort in her gut.

Regardless of her wounded pride at being sent away once again, the Northern convoy moved quickly, setting off just days after Tommen's missive had been received. True to Sansa's word, lesser noble houses were invited to send emissaries alongside Brienne or join their voice with House Stark and add their grievances to the Starks'. It seemed that each time the list had been completed, some minor lord or lady would come forward with a complaint to be added to the missive. By the end of two days' time, the list of grievances House Stark was presenting extended far beyond Winterfell, covering the majority of the North in one single voice, and all of it written in Sansa Stark's carefully looping script. Brienne had spent enough time in court to know that Sansa was making a potentially dangerous powerplay uniting the North in such a blatant way, but perhaps it would work out for the best.

* * *

Posted 19:45, 4.23.18

Updated 16:53, 3.12.19


	4. Chapter 4

Qyburn wasn't especially cunning, but he was smart enough to listen to his new birds' songs. Tommen was reinstituting the Small Council, meeting with potential members and listening to endless recommendations and hopefuls pleading their cases. Tommen was meeting with the scattered members of the Faith, likely in search of candidates for a new High Septon. Tommen was exchanging messages with the Archmaester of the Citadel. With a new—and perhaps stronger-willed—grand maester soon to be chosen, Qyburn's next moves would need to be carefully plotted.

Cersei wasn't powerless even with Tommen's recent awakening, but she wasn't smart. She had dangerously overreached when she had set out to destroy the sept, and she wouldn't have succeeded without his assistance. Qyburn was culpable in the murder of the ruling queen, but perhaps he could spin the situation so that he might live. His experiments were already enabling him to save lives; if he were killed now, his knowledge would be lost and all those lives he'd ended would be for nothing.

The need to ingratiate himself with the king brought him to the small council room. His birds had whispered that the king retired to this room for peace when the sycophants and supplicants grew too loud.

Two Kingsguard were at the door; Qyburn recognized one as King Tommen's trusted Ser Balon, but the other had been a relatively new member whose name slipped Qyburn's mind.

"I have information for the king," Qyburn announced himself at the door before either knight could open his mouth to speak. "It is of upmost importance."

Ser Balon poked his head into the small council chambers while the new knight squinted at him uncertainly. Ah yes, Qyburn hummed to himself. This unnamed ser had probably heard enough stories of Ser Gregor to have all sorts of ideas of the man who had brought such a beast back from the brink of death.

"The king will see you," Balon reported after a long moment.

Qyburn was unsurprised that Jaime Lannister was seated at the table with Tommen. Whatever else could be said about him, Jaime did have the capacity to be a dedicated attack dog.

"Qyburn. I was wondering when you'd try to squirm into this room. Though I guess I did expect you to try to come here during an actual meeting of the small council," Jaime remarked offhandedly. Refusing to rise to the bait, Qyburn smiled graciously. He wasn't here to trade barbs with a man he'd seen sob.

"Ser Jaime. Your grace. I wanted to inquire as to any services you might require of me. I found that I inherited birds from both Varys and Pycelle. I also had a number of projects under development stemming from your mother's interests that you may be interested in seeing through."

"Projects?" Tommen asked cautiously. Qyburn bowed his head sharply.

"Yes. She is immensely concerned on the safety of the realm. On hearing recent reports of Slaver's Bay, she instructed me to design a weapon that could counteract the Targaryen girl's dragons."

"A few juvenile dragons halfway across the world are less pressing than domestic treason, it would seem."

"Indeed. The recent attack was a preventable tragedy. I've had my birds seeking out any remaining caches of wildfire beneath the city, to prevent a second incident. In that vein, I was made to understood that it was Ser Gregor who kept you from attending the trial, thus saving your life."

"At the expense of my wife, her family, and a thousand others, yes. Ser Gregor was responsible in part."

"And I understand the predicament facing you in delivering him to justice. You do want justice, don't you?" Qyburn kept his voice light and resisted the urge to smile when Tommen shifted his weight in his chair, interested. The game was set.

"Of course."

"In the course of my… treatment of Ser Gregor after he was incapacitated by Oberyn Martell, I became acutely aware of the man's physiology. With my guidance, Ser Gregor may be subdued more easily, with less collateral damage."

"Men will do a lot for a bag of gold. I'm sure we could find someone to put him down without your wisdom." Jaime simply couldn't keep his mouth shut. Qyburn had never directly asked how exactly how Jaime had lost his hand—again, he was rather smart—but Qyburn was convinced that the man's mouth had something to do with it.

"Perhaps… Perhaps not. I suppose the question now remains: is refusing my aid to satiate your pride more important than the lives of your vassals? If your pride is more important, than I will remain silent. If you'd rather preserve life and structural damage where possible, I am at your disposal." Qyburn turned away from Jaime to the person that was, at least in name, the true power in the room. "Your grace, do you know how I came to serve in King's Landing?"

"You treated Ser Jaime's arm, and was part of the party that delivered him here," Tommen replied quickly enough.

"That is the truth in part. Healers, even those without a maester's chain, find work in war. I healed Riverlands men, was tortured and nearly killed by Lannister men, preserved by Stark men, and came to the capitol to serve the crown. I have served many lords under many banners, but I serve. I do not honor house allegiance in the way your bannermen do; I honor the science and medicine that I am working to further. If you are prepared to accept that, I will prove valuable to your reign."

"You would not swear allegiance?" Tommen asked, disbelieving. Qyburn shook his head, a carefully constructed smile visible for the king.

"Next you visit your mother, ask if I ever swore her my loyalty. If I swear no loyalties, I can continue my work even as the banners change. It is a practice that has served me well, and I will continue it until I die in your service or in your successors'."

Tommen was silent for a long moment, staring Qyburn down as if he meant to get a measure of the man. Qyburn stared back demurely, unconcerned. Honesty was a rare thing in a conversation within the Red Keep, but Qyburn gained nothing from lies to this new king and had much to gain. Tommen would be cautious against liars and supplicants; he would not have his guard raised to an honest man.

"How would you propose to counteract the Mountain's strength?"

"To go into a true explanation, I would need to describe the exact methodology I used to rescue him from the manticore venom used by Oberyn Martell—a lengthy and complicated dialogue that would be hard to understand without an extensive medical background or training. Let it suffice to say that there are certain compounds that would have an extreme reaction with exposure."

"Poison?" Jaime scoffed. "A woman's weapon."

"Do not think of it as poison. There is no true stopper to death. What I did when I saved Clegane from the manticore venom can be considered a hiatus in the poison's spread if one is generous. What flows through Clegane's veins is no longer true blood. With exposure to the proper compouds—either large amounts to his skin or a small amount ingested—my treatments would unravel and the poison would resume its course. Given how extensive the damage had been when I began treatment, I'd be astonished if he survived more than a day once my treatment is undone."

Tommen exchanged a quick glance with his uncle before frowning to himself, eyes drawing back to the table in front of him. After weighing the options for the better part of a minute, Tommen's eyes raised to meet Qyburn's.

"What is in this compound? Would others be likely to have an adverse reaction if they were to be exposed?"

Qyburn smiled and Jaime scowled. He'd won once again; the work continues.

* * *

Littlefinger had taught Sansa more lessons than he perhaps meant to. The latest lesson that she'd learned was not one that Baelish had meant to impart, but it was important to Sansa's continued wellbeing that she learn: allies discourage attack. The North was in a position of weakness if anyone were to decide to attack, and it would only grow weaker as winter began its assault.

The Knights of the Vale were very loosely Sansa's. They had come at her call, but on Baelish's order. With Baelish still in the picture, they would never be truly loyal to her. Unfortunately, despite his previous mishandling of her, there was no delicate way to remove him from the situation without losing the Vale's army. It was the Knights of the Vale that had won the Battle of the Bastards. If they were lost, the North would be easy pickings for the crown, the Targaryen would-be queen, or the Ironborn.

The wildlings were loyal to no one save their own self-interest. Sansa could respect that—she respected anyone who had that sort of personal freedom—but their freedoms did not make her a contented wardeness. The wildlings that lived in the Gift would not fight for her, nor would they fight for anyone unless they had a personal stake in the battle. It was a reasonable stance, but it wasn't one that made Sansa rest easy with Jon's wights coming in from the north and Cersei's lions staring at them from the south.

Jon had made it clear that he was either unwilling or unable to forge strong alliances. It had been her work that had resulted in victory at the Battle of the Bastards, not that she received any acclaim from it. She didn't need acclaim, per say, but she needed safety. If it became known that she, Sansa Stark, was ready and able to protect her home and those who resided in it, enemies would think twice before marching north.

The North needed allies. Tommen's missive had introduced one potential ally in the southern king, but Sansa wasn't naïve enough to place her faith in a boy younger than her. Thinking of Tommen returned her thoughts to her time in the capitol, and particularly to the other rays of light in that dark place.

She missed Margaery horribly. In her time in the cage Cersei had crafted for her, Margaery had been truly kind, and Sansa was sure that she wouldn't have survived King's Landing without the support of the Tyrells.

Perhaps, she mused as she reached for a clean piece of parchment, House Tyrell may be willing to support her again.

 _Lady Olenna,_

 _When I was alone in King's Landing, I was sure that I'd never see my family again, a fear that resurged with my mother and brother's deaths. It was your candor, and Margaery's steadfast friendship, that kept me afloat in King's Landing. House Tyrell is responsible for my current sanity, and I'm ashamed to admit that I had forgotten your friendship until now. I will never forget Margaery's kindness, and I pray each day that she and Ser Loras are in a better place than we are._

 _You were generous with me in King's Landing, so I will be open with you now. House Stark has reasserted its position in the North. My brother, who you may know as Jon Snow, has been named King in the North by our lords and I its Wardeness. Still, I am afraid. Neither of us require proof to know that Cersei Lannister was behind the destruction of the Sept of Baelor. The North is lucky to have such distance between our homes and Cersei's armies, but I fear for you in Highgarden. I offer you sanctuary in Winterfell, but I know that the cold would disagree with you and the reluctance of the Northmen to march on Cersei would anger you. If you refuse what security I can lend, as I am sure you will, I'd offer you whatever resources I can supply that would aid you in destroying Cersei. The North has a war of its own, but Cersei must be destroyed at the first opportunity. I hope that I have not misjudged you in telling you this._

 _The Seven Kingdoms never deserved a queen like your granddaughter, but we will remember her._

 _Yours,_

 _Sansa Stark, Wardeness of the North_

Blowing softly on the ink to speed its drying, Sansa reclined in her seat. The North was vast, but it needed support. Support from within, and without. If the Queen of Thorns was willing to provide any sort of support—even if that support was in name only—the North would be that much safer. In a world where safety didn't truly exist, any form of protection was more valuable than gold.

* * *

Many of the matters Tommen was briefed on in his meetings with his subjects were out of his control, but there were so many people that simply desired to be heard. Since the sept's destruction, his days had been full of introductions and meetings, attempting to fill the places on the small council and trying to appease his restless citizens, and Tommen was finally proud to have accomplished one small goal.

"In this time of struggle in the wake of such needless destruction and loss of life, there is little this kingdom needs more than justice and unity. The small council has grown alarmingly small, and the ability of this kingdom to be run smoothly has waned with it. In the pursuit of correcting the dissolution of the small council, I hereby name Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill as Master of Laws."

Tommen, standing before the iron throne, glanced to where Randyll Tarly stood. Lord Randyll Tarly was not an overly likeable man. Jaime had warned Tommen of that long before he had met him. What Tommen _did_ like about Lord Randyll was his resolute loyalty. Margaery hadn't spoken much on the houses of the Reach, but House Tarly was renowned for its perhaps ludicrous loyalty to House Tyrell. Now, with the destruction of House Tyrell being likely committed by someone so close to the crown, unity between the crown and the Reach was desperately needed. House Tarly was also one of the strongest vassals of House Tyrell, and when House Tyrell faded with Olenna's inevitable passing, the kingdom would need a new Warden of the South. Tarly, while not exceedingly pleasant, was a good candidate.

"As Master of Laws, Lord Tarly will now join me in hearing your grievances. Together we will work to return this kingdom to a place where all of our families are able to live in safety and live well in the eyes of gods and men."

Jaime watched the proceedings of court with a weary smile. The weeks since the destruction of the sept had not been easy, but he was happy to see that his son was so quickly adapting to his role. Tommen had always been a kind boy, but Margaery's death had, in many ways, been the catalyst he'd need to spur his resolve. Jaime knew that Tommen had been hopelessly in love with his bride, just as he knew that not a day had past for Tommen that he hadn't thought of Margaery. Jaime could see her influence in everything he did, from placing a man from the Reach on the small council to his sharpened attention on his subjects.

As Tommen walked towards his newest advisor, Jaime could only hope that Tommen's voice remained his own. Randyll Tarly didn't seem to be a man with extremely strong opinions, but he struck Jaime as a man that would defend his decisions to the point of stupidity if he were crossed.

* * *

"My little birds have—"

"Do shut up, Varys," Olenna interjected tiredly. The walk from her rooms to Daenerys' war room was already long enough without having to endure a long riddle at the end of it. Daenerys looked to Olenna curiously, which the old woman tried very hard to not be offended at. Was she that absent from these meetings that her very presence was surprising? No matter. The Dragon Queen looked amused and all of their major allies were present, so Olenna supposed it was safe enough to proceed. "I've just received a letter from Sansa Stark."

"Sansa?"

All eyes turned to Tyrion, surprised at his outburst. If Olenna didn't know better, the dwarf was nearly blushing at the unwanted attention. After a moment of thought, she chuckled.

"Oh yes. You two were married for a time. Well, it would seem your blushing bride has revealed her claws." Olenna looked to Daenerys with a dry smile. "Sansa is seeking alliances. I'm sure that she does not want to drag the North into more wars for the crown, but she wants protection from Cersei."

Daenerys was silent for a long moment as her hands gently traced the map of Westeros carved onto the tabletop.

"And you think you can trust this Stark? The daughter of the man that betrayed the crown twice, if I'm unmistaken."

"If Sansa is making moves, it would be best to align our causes where possible. She's a clever girl and, with the Knights of the Vale backing her, she has resources that we could use. She has no love for Cersei," Tyrion assured Daenerys. Varys hummed thoughtfully from his place at the table, drawing Daenerys' eyes to him.

"She has no love for Cersei, that much is true. But can the same be said for Tommen? She knew him as a boy. Tommen was always a kind boy, and it seems that he's been more active in his rule since Margaery Tyrell's death."

"How active?" Daenerys asked sharply. Olenna's sharp eyes caught the hint of a frown on Varys' face before he smoothed it away into his annoying emotionless mask.

"He's called upon all the bannermen of the crown—"

"Gathering up an army to combat us?" Daenerys guessed. Varys shook his head.

"He's hearing grievances of the houses and seeking out new members for the small council. He has retained Jaime Lannister as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and has recently taken on Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill as Master of Laws."

Daenerys was quiet for another moment, and Tyrion was quick to fill the silence.

"His recent actions suggest that he is aware that his mother was seizing control, and that he is actively countering her."

"Countering her that so _he_ is king. His being more active is not a great success for us. Taking the capitol would be easier if the people were united against their despot. If they approve of what this boy is doing now, they'll resist me… We need more eyes in the capitol."

"I'll see it done," Varys acquiesced. As he excused himself, Daenerys turned her attention to two of her allies that had been surprisingly quiet thus far.

"Theon. You knew Sansa, didn't you?" The man jerked unsteadily at the sudden attention, but he nodded quickly, muttering under his breath an affirmation. "So? Do you agree with Tyrion that she may make a good ally? Or would she be a threat to us?"

"Sansa—Sansa cares about her home. And her family. If you don't threaten that, she will not be your enemy."

"Her bastard brother is named King in the North. Last I read my histories, the North was one of the Seven Kingdoms. If he continues to press that claim, their interests are in opposition to mine. Does that not make us enemies?"

"She's only ever wanted safety, but she's stubborn. She'll need to be convinced that bending the knee will help protect her people."

"I have three dragons."

"The Northerners don't scare so easily," Yara commented offhand. "We attacked their keeps when most of the fighting men were off in the Young Wolf's camps, and they didn't give a single foot without blood… Who's the real power in the North? Jon is supposed to be king, but Sansa is asking for allies?"

"Sansa has a better mind for politics," Tyrion explained succinctly. "I only knew him briefly, but Jon was more a man of action. Doesn't think before he does anything."

"That doesn't sound like a man I would want to be allied with."

"Hang Jon then. You need the North. Sansa can give it to you. If you show her what you've shown all of us, she will give it to you without bloodshed. If you try to take the North with a fight, you will lose. Winter is here, and the Dothraki and the Unsullied weren't trained to fight in a northern winter. Even if you win, the northerners will fight you at every turn for the rest of your reign."

"Well, three of us know the girl and we've got a couple of ravens, don't we? Write the girl a letter," Olenna recommended. "She reached out first, looking for allies. We could offer her our support against Cersei if she bends the knee."

"So it's a question of who writes the letter?" Yara asked. Her eyes settled on Tyrion quickly. "I think that falls to you, _Lord Hand_."

"You were married to her, you said?" Daenerys' voice was soft as she thought through it aloud. "Would she trust you?"

"She—Maybe. We got along well enough in King's Landing, but we didn't have the option not to. She's also been through much since I've seen her." Even as the words fell from Tyrion's lips, they sounded empty to his ears. He supposed he was stalling, pushing back against the inevitable, but he was afraid. He was the best suited to reach out to Sansa with terms of an alliance, but he was terrified to be reunited with his once-wife. She was hardly more than a girl when they'd last seen each other, but he was a fool if he tried to pretend that he hadn't cared immensely for her. He had always insisted to her that she was stronger than she knew; would he be able to face her now that she knew just how powerful she was? Would she even trifle with him now? "I'll reach out to her, but I can't promise anything."

"Call her to Dragonstone."

"To—" Tyrion's eyes widened with shock. "She won't come. There's nothing you can do, nothing I can say, to convince her that it would be safe coming here. Your father burned her grandfather and uncle alive when they were called south."

"And her father helped Robert Baratheon murder my family and force me from my ancestral home. We are not our fathers, none of us." Tyrion winced at the jab, but he persisted.

"Bad things happen to Starks that travel south. She's only just found her brother, who might be the last living family she's got, and you want me to convince her to leave Winterfell? She's the Wardeness of the North, her place will be at Winterfell."

"If she would like to keep acting as Wardeness of the North after I take the iron throne, she will come to Dragonstone. Her queen is calling upon her."

Daenerys turned on her heel and left, leaving no room for counterargument. As Tyrion watched her go, heart sinking and stomach churning, one word echoed in his thoughts.

 _Shit_.

* * *

Posted 14:00, 4.30.18

Updated 16:54, 3.12.19


	5. Chapter 5

The Kingsroad was a shit road to be named for the crown. It was more than wide enough for several horses to ride aside one another, but the conditions of the road were becoming abysmal as snow and rain continued to fall. There were still days of sun, but they were few and far enough between that the road never dried from the muddy mess it had become. Luckily their company had made it far enough south that there was no ice to complicate travel, but the way back wouldn't be so lucky.

Despite the conditions of the road, Brienne and the northern emissaries were making decent time. With two weeks of travel gone, they were nearly halfway to the capitol, and the weather was getting nicer each mile they traveled further.

A lone rider appeared on the horizon, traveling towards them on the road, and Brienne resisted the urge to groan. Each time they found someone headed north, they always performed an ungainly dance around each other as they tried to navigate their horses—and their supplies—in a way that would allow the other to pass by. Luckily this person seemed to be alone, which would hopefully make it easier for the northerners to clear a path.

A quiet warning bell was struck in Brienne's mind as she considered the lone rider heading towards her caravan at a steady trot. Every fool from White Harbor to Sunspear knew that winter was here; why was a person—a girl, she identified as the figure drew closer—moving further north on their own? The girl had only what was in her saddlebags, so she clearly wasn't a merchant of any sort. She should be at home with whatever family she had left, not on the bloody Kingsroad.

Eventually the lone rider finally was upon them. Brienne studied the girl closely, still feeling a bizarre sort of anxiety at the girl's sudden appearance. There was nothing particularly special about this girl. Perhaps the oddest thing was the way her eyes were drawn to the emblems etched on the armor of the minor lords riding. Or the thin sword attached at the girl's hip, far too thin and narrow to be good for much of anything. Actually, Brienne considered, the oddest thing was the way that this girl's gaze completely slipped past Brienne herself. A woman in armor wasn't unusual to this girl.

The northerners divided down the middle, clearing a narrow path for the girl's horse to navigate. As the girl began to move down the length of the caravan, Brienne's attention was suddenly seized by the smallest details of the traveler. The cut of the girl's jaw suddenly struck a chord in Brienne's mind, forcing her to recall the stubborn turn of Lady Catelyn's mouth whenever she had been displeased. It was impossible, but—

"Arya?" Brienne's voice was quiet with disbelief. It had been more than a few months since Arya Stark was last seen alive. Brienne herself had probably been the last to see her and recognize her for who she was: the lost daughter of Ned Stark.

The girl stiffened, her blade appearing in her hand as she realized suddenly that she was now surrounded with men at arms. She turned to face Brienne, a guarded expression in her eyes as Brienne dismounted and staggered towards the girl.

"It is, isn't it? Arya Stark?" Brienne asked. Murmurs began to rise up among the northern emissaries as they began to see what Brienne had noticed. The girl had Lord Stark's northern coloring, and little of Catelyn's gentleness in her features, but she had Catelyn's steel and Ned's wildness: a true Northern lady.

As Brienne drew close to the girl, the guarded look in her eyes faded as she recognized the figure in front of her.

"You fought Clegane. He lost."

"Yes. I am Brienne of Tarth," Brienne introduced herself again. Arya's eyes flickered around the convoy before returning to Brienne.

"What happened to the boy with you?"

"He's at Winterfell. I left him to guard Lady Sansa in my absence."

"Sansa's at Winterfell?" There was the slightest hint of a crack in Arya's voice as she sought confirmation. Brienne's heart ached at how much that hope had to hurt.

"Yes, she and Jon are both there. She received a missive from King Tommen that asked all houses of the realm to send emissaries to King's Landing to air their grievances. I am going in her stead."

"They're home…" Arya's sword was suddenly sheathed. "I was on my way there. I heard a rumor at the Crossroads that they'd taken it back, but I needed—I needed to make sure."

Brienne suddenly found herself pushed to the background as the northerners around them dismounted and approached, all eager to greet the lost Stark and ask her how she'd survived and all sorts of inappropriate questions that Brienne was certain would be left unanswered. She allowed herself to fall back, though, as she began to think of the ramifications of this meeting.

She had sworn to Lady Catelyn to defend and serve _both_ of her daughters if they were ever found. With Arya being presumed dead, it had been easy for Brienne to follow Sansa's commands, her duty clear. With Arya here, hundreds of miles from Winterfell but otherwise safe and alive, her obligations became suddenly complicated. Should she continue onto King's Landing as Sansa had ordered, or did she obey Lady Catelyn's last wishes and safely see Arya home to Winterfell? Brienne could only accomplish one, and whatever she accomplished would be at the expense of the other. Arya could clearly not join them in the capitol—her presence would both destabilize Brienne's ability to speak with Sansa's voice and place Arya in immediate reach of her greatest enemies. No, Arya needed to be behind Winterfell's walls at the soonest opportunity.

But Brienne's mission from Sansa wasn't just for Sansa's protection. It was for the protection of the entire North, a task that Sansa had adopted as her personal undertaking. Brienne had known of the letters Sansa sent to Tommen and Olenna; she knew that Sansa was desperate for support and Brienne could, by following Sansa's decree, be a bridge between Sansa and potential allies.

"I'm going to Winterfell," Arya repeated to one of the minor lords. Brienne couldn't even remember what house he was from. "I need to see my family."

"My la—Arya," Brienne corrected stiffly when Arya levelled a glare in her direction. "If you're continuing north, please allow me to assign some of our company as your guards. I understand that you are a capable fighter, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to make this trek alone any longer."

"Whoever you place with me will only slow me," Arya argued blandly. One of the men—the bastard of Hornwood, Larence Snow—laughed.

"Lady Brienne, I'd volunteer to escort Lady Stark home. I've never been one to say no to a challenge."

"And your house grievances?"

"I'm a Snow with no family left. If you'd like, add my legitimatization to your master list but I have no house to grieve for anymore."

"You're not going to be able to keep up," Arya insisted.

"As I said, my lady, I've never been one to avoid a challenge."

"I'm not a lady."

"Of course not, my lady."

Brienne weighed the risks of having a handsome, charismatic bastard like Larence escort the lady home, but she was certain that Larence would lose more than his pride if he attempted anything untoward with the young Stark. Mind decided for her, she nodded to Larence.

"If anything happens to her on your journey, you will be explaining the situation to Lady Sansa," Brienne commanded. Larence's smile faltered and Arya began to laugh.

"You're afraid of my sister?"

"Entirely, my lady," Larence replied seriously.

* * *

Jon watched as Sansa accepted another letter.

"From Tommen?" he asked once Wolkan walked away a respectable distance. Jon wasn't happy to know that his sister was exchanging correspondence with the southern king, but he supposed that any information or support she could gain wouldn't be amiss. There was a war to be fought, after all, and the Lannister armies would be sorely appreciated.

"No…" Sansa's voice was rich with disbelief, so Jon peered closer at the scroll itself. As his eyes traced the three-headed dragon on the seal, he felt his heart hammer against his chest. "It's from Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Well, let's get to it, then," Jon forced out after clearing his throat. The words still caught uncomfortably on their way out, and he coughed again as Sansa broke the wax seal.

"This is Tyrion's hand," she murmured aloud. Realizing that she'd spoken aloud, she glanced to Jon to gauge his reaction. Her brother was very carefully _not_ reacting. She wasn't sure how Jon felt about Tyrion—much had happened since the two had briefly known each other on their journey to the Wall—but she hoped that Jon would be at least neutral towards Tyrion. Tyrion had been a lifeline, though an unwanted one at first, in her time in Cersei's grip. Tyrion had assured her at each step that she was capable of greatness, and look at her now: she was safe, home at Winterfell with an army that had come to protect her. Tyrion had believed in her when no one else would; perhaps she could return that favor?

 _My lady Sansa,_

 _My sister was a fool for ever letting her little dove out of her sight. I hope you don't think I'm overreaching when I say that I believed you would succeed, but I knew you to be fierce, my wolf. I am happy you were able to escape the capitol after Joffrey's death, and while I'm sure your journey home was not without obstacles I hope you've been able to recover in the safety of strong walls._

 _Unfortunately, this letter isn't just for pleasantries, though I would love to trade stories with you once more. You asked Olenna Tyrell for support, which I understand, but she has already sworn herself to our queen, Daenerys Targaryen. We have conferred, and Daenerys is willing to support your and Jon's claims for the wardenship of the North on the condition that you support her over Cersei and Tommen and that the North returns to its place as one of the seven kingdoms._

 _Daenerys calls upon you to come to Dragonstone to further discuss terms, as I know she is curious about you and you are rightfully cautious of her. If you are hesitant to come, remember the words I told you when I placed that cloak on your shoulders. Our marriage may have been a political sham, but my intentions were true._

 _Yours,_

 _Tyrion Lannister, Hand to Queen Daenerys Targaryen I_

"The words he told you?" Jon asked sharply after reading the letter over her shoulder.

"He promised me what protection he could offer. He swore that my enemies were his as well."

"Difficult thing to do when your enemies are his family."

"Don't say that. Tyrion was kind, and gentle. He didn't want our marriage any more than I did, but it served us well until Joffrey's death."

"And him serving this new queen?"

"For Tyrion to truly serve? I think she must be something to marvel. I want to believe that Tyrion wouldn't led me into a trap like this—"

"Are you even sure Tyrion wrote this?"

"It is in his hand, and no one was with us when he promised me his protection. This is Tyrion."

"So, you're going to go? What about the North? A Stark must always be in Winterfell," Jon reminded her pointedly. Sansa scoffed lightly.

"You're the King in the North. _You_ can't go. We have no history with Daenerys and she has allies that we cannot afford to alienate; she will not accept a substitute as Tommen will with Brienne. And you might be a bastard, but you're just as much a Stark as I am."

As she carefully folded the letter, Sansa wondered at her defense of Tyrion. They could be total strangers now, but she still found herself trusting his words. Her hand brushed away a wrinkle of fabric on her shoulder and, for the first time in her memory, she was sad that she'd had to leave everything behind her in King's Landing. She wondered if her marriage cloak to Tyrion—the only physical reminder of the marriage left in this world—still existed or if it was as dissolved as their marriage was when she was sold to Ramsay.

No. She'd like to imagine that it still existed, somewhere in a dark corner or tucked into some hidden drawer. Some part of her soul was still tied to Tyrion and, even if it wasn't romantic love, the string tying their fates together still held strong despite all they've endured.

"I'm going to Dragonstone. I'll leave precise orders with Wolkan and the servants, but you must be more active in my absence. You'll have to be King and Warden. I hope you were paying some attention to Father's duties before he became Hand."

Jon wondered, not for the first time, when Sansa had become so mature. He remembered the silly girl she had been, and it was difficult to contrast that image with the powerful young woman before him now. Titles be damned, the King in the North was nothing before this woman and Jon found all of his carefully worded arguments—and all of his anger—fall away until he was left resigned and exhausted. His sister was leaving him and there was nothing he could do but wish her success and fair winds.

"I hope so too."

* * *

After meeting Arya on the road, the miles seemed to melt away under their horses' hooves as they pressed onward and southward. It felt like just days after seeing Larence and Arya disappear behind them that King's Landing appeared on the horizon.

Brienne hated the capitol. She had avoided it whenever possible as a girl, when her father still had hopes of marrying her off to some noble in court who'd be interested in inheriting Tarth. She had avoided it as a young woman, swearing herself to Renly and then Catelyn, when it was full of her worst enemies. The last time she had set foot in the capitol… It would do well not to dwell too long on those memories.

"Name and purpose," a bored-looking goldcloak standing guard at the Gate of the Gods asked. Somewhat surprised at the question—and unable to recall another time in her memory where the goldcloaks actually questioned those entering the city—Brienne found herself answering truthfully.

"Brienne of Tarth. I stand for Lady Sansa of House Stark in accepting King Tommen's invitation."

"Ah. Ye'll be wanting up to the Red Keep then. Don't know how they'll fit ya lot in, though. Lords and bastards of all sorts have been crawling out from the woodwork to whisper in King Tommen's ear," the goldcloak said with a mild smile. He glanced behind himself, where several other guards were lazing about. "Oi! Daron, Marcal, get off yer asses. Ya want to eat, you gotta work, same as the rest of us."

Two of the goldcloaks extricated themselves from the group, one excusing himself from a game of cards and the other shoving a friend who had begun to crow at his being called to work. The younger one paused in his glaring balefully at his friend just long enough to look at Brienne with a hand out in welcome.

"Right this way, m'lady."

As the procession began the trek from one side of the city to the other, Brienne found herself staring across the smog and stink of the city. True to the rumors, her eyes couldn't catch a glimpse of the Sept of Baelor and she felt a new wave of grief for everyone living in the city. Not everyone living in the city cut purses or throats for a living; there were regular people here that were paying for the wars in their own ways. Brienne had been lucky; most of her struggle in the war had been paid in walking up and down all of Westeros once or twice. Her father had been safe on Tarth, and she had no other family left to lose. Her losses didn't compare to what others had lost.

"Are you Daron or Marcal?" she found herself asking the guard in front of the procession, the young man. She estimated him to be younger than Arya, probably fifteen at most.

"Marcal, m'lady."

"How long have you been serving on the City Watch?"

"Not too long," he admitted honestly. "Few moons. Back when the Sept went to shit, his grace ordered the City Watch to bulk up."

"Do you know why?"

"Don't care. Got a job when I didn't before. Lost my dad in the sept, family needed the money. It's working out alright so far."

"Do you know many people that died in the sept?"

"Does it matter? Everyone knows people who died." After a moment, Marcal's eyes widened. "Apologies, m'lady. I didn't mean no disrespect, I—"

"It's fine, Marcal. No offense meant, none taken," Brienne assured him gently. The young boy heaved a sigh of relief and Brienne turned her gaze further down the Street of Seeds. Continuing on this path, they'd walk right past the destroyed sept on their way to the Red Keep. She was glad; she wanted to see what remained, to contrast it in her memory to the great monument Baelor had constructed in his life, now ruined.

"Pardon my asking… You lot are from the North, right? The proper north?"

"Less proper than some would say," Brienne found herself saying, thinking immediately of Tormund and his ridiculous ways. "I'm from Tarth, in the Stormlands, but I serve House Stark."

"Sorry, just a bit surprised you lot even came down here. My brother fought in the War of Five Kings, ya see. The stories he told when he got home… I'm surprised any of you want to see any of us, on both sides."

"Lady Sansa hopes that King Tommen was honest in his invitation. All of the men with me are willing to trust in her hope that we aren't being led into a trap. We aren't, are we, Marcal?"

"No, m'lady!" he was quick to insist. Brienne found herself smiling just a bit.

With Marcal acting as a surprisingly adept guide as they worked their way through the city, the group made good time, stopping only briefly at the site of the sept before moving on. The destruction hadn't quite levelled the area, but, as Marcal explained, King Tommen had ordered the debris cleared from the site. Crews were being employed now to transform the site where the sept had stood into, to Brienne's surprise, a garden. As Marcal described what he knew of the plans, Brienne could nearly see the flowers beginning to bloom and smell their perfume. She could envision the monument that Tommen was ordering to commemorate and mourn the destruction: an obelisk of marble standing where the center of the Sept had been, engraved with the names of each man, woman, and child lost to the fires. Envisioning the hundreds of trellises of roses that would stand guard at the garden's points of entry, Brienne knew that Tommen still mourned Margaery Tyrell.

Even when the site of the sept was far behind them, the group moved with a somber air. Marcal, who had chattered at any opportunity, found himself silenced by the heaviness in the air and Brienne was unable to break it. The silence felt important somehow, as if their silence was the only way the northerners could acknowledge the needless loss. The northerners may not believe in the Seven, but they could all too easily envision the thousand dead at Cersei's hands.

The silence carried until they were nearly at the Red Keep, when Marcal finally spoke.

"If you don't mind my saying, m'lady, I think we've got a proper king now." There was an uncertain note in the boy's voice, and Brienne realized suddenly that Marcal was afraid. More than that, Marcal was afraid for Tommen, as if the northern convoy were very poorly disguised assassins here to take away the only decent thing left in the city. "He's been good to us here, just like Queen Margaery was."

"If he can be half as good to the North, I'm sure we won't have any trouble while we're here." She'd never thought that she'd be assuring anyone of that, let alone a boy playing goldcloak to help feed his family, but Brienne spoke true. The city had a different feel and, while they didn't walk through the slums of Flea Bottom on this trip, it seemed that Tommen's influence had an uplifting affect on King's Landing. Reflecting on the state of the city, Brienne found herself praying that King Tommen would be amendable to the North's terms.

* * *

Posted 15:48, 5.8.18

Updated 16:58, 3.12.19


	6. Chapter 6

As Tommen finished with Ser Gerric Erenford—Ser Gerric, from a knighted minor house in the Riverlands, wanted to complain that he found himself without an immediate liege lord and had summarily volunteered to raise House Erenford from a lessor house to take the extinct Tully seat at Riverrun—a retainer came in to deliver a message.

"Your grace, a party from the North has arrived. They've been shown to rooms in the Breakspear Tower."

"Thank you, Wyn," Tommen said automatically, dismissing the retainer with a wave before realizing exactly what was said. "Wyn, how many have come?"

"Seventeen, your grace."

"And, among them, is there a woman named Brienne of Tarth?"

"I—I'm not sure, your grace. I can compile a list of names if you'd—"

"That's quite alright." Tommen glanced down the table, where Jaime and Randyll were already looking back at him.

"You intend to invite the Northerners ahead of the line?" Jaime guessed.

"It would be an insult to the other houses that have come before them," Randyll countered with a shake of his head. "They wait in line as the others houses have."

"The North came as an independent kingdom, not a vassal house. If you force them to wait, they'll lose patience." Tommen wasn't surprised that Jaime had an immediately argument against Randyll, but he was surprised that he found himself agreeing. It had been his intent to judge the houses fairly as they came to parley, but House Stark and the North had suffered in ways that many houses hadn't. Tommen also couldn't pretend that the letter he'd received from Sansa didn't weigh heavily on his mind.

"We will give them time to rest after their journey, but I will see them sooner rather than later. They came later than other houses, but they also had a much longer distance to travel. For them to get here so soon, they must have assembled very quickly. I won't disrespect them by wasting their time here when their families are already facing the snows. We are done for today, though. Lord Tarly, please give my apologies to the representatives still waiting. We will continue this tomorrow."

Tommen rose to his feet, spurring Jaime and Randyll to follow suit, and Tommen dismissed Randyll with a nod.

"You're going to talk to them now, aren't you?" Jaime asked in a low voice as Randyll moved towards where the supplicants remained lined up in the throne room. "As your kingsguard, I'd tell you that it's foolish. The guard haven't had the proper time to assess the risks of you meeting with them, as they have with the others waiting to speak to you. If even one of them wants to take this opportunity to attack you—"

"I'm sure you or Ser Arys will gallantly intercede. I won't be afraid to talk to someone that's travelled over a thousand miles simply because I asked."

"You're a king, Tommen. You don't _simply_ ask anything. If Sansa Stark is half as smart as she thinks she is, she knows that she could not have refused your _suggestion_ without the potential for repercussions."

"It was an invitation."

"Yes, an invitation to air their grievances with their king. But the Northmen don't view you as their king. You're a king, just not theirs. To them, Robb Stark was king. Now, Jon Snow is their king. Wearing your own crown doesn't change that, not to them."

"And nothing will change their opinion if I don't meet with them," Tommen insisted quietly. "Ser Arys?" As Ser Arys fell into step behind his king, Jaime fell quiet, trying to figure out how to discourage his son's foolishness. His silence continued as Tommen began the slow walk towards the Breakspear Tower.

The Red Keep was a sprawling compound. Entire sections of it were unused for one reason or another, with some being used in times of siege and other purely for entertaining visitors. The Breakspear Tower, built towards the west of the compound near the waterfront district, was one of the Red Keep's newer additions. Construction had been started by Queen Myriah in 207 AC to memorialize the death of her firstborn son, but had stopped briefly when the Great Spring Sickness of 209 tore through King's Landing. Once the chaos of succession had ended with Maekar I as king, Maekar continued and finished the construction of the tower, naming it Breakspear Tower after his oldest brother as Myriah had wished. Breakspear was not generally used for hosting guests—the history of its construction and the story of its namesake were popular sources for poorly crafted ghost stores—but there had been such a flood of representatives from the kingdoms that Tommen had no choice but to have the tower opened once more.

Along the length of the walk, Jaime followed after his son, fully intending to hamper his progress towards the tower but never managing to so much as slow the king's gait. No manner of questions or concerns worked to have Tommen see sense. If Tommen had been a different king, Jaime would have been immeasurably proud to serve such a devoted ruler. Knowing that it was his son so recklessly walking towards danger changed his perspective, though, and it was with trepidation that Jaime quickened his pace to at least enter the tower first. Tommen's easy chuckle at his uncle's behavior did nothing to allay his fears.

Breakspear Tower was surprisingly quiet. It was only when the trio were directly in front of the rooms that were given to the northern company did Tommen and his guards see any signs of life. Jarring Jaime's nerves further, the first thing he heard was laughter.

"I've never seen a man fight like them," a man was saying, awe in his voice. "It's a wonder they didn't get around the Wall sooner."

"You'd have a different opinion if one of them wanting to sneak into your blankets, though. Right, Lady Knight?"

"Lord Mollen, I hope you take me seriously when I tell you that I know how to cut a man's tongue from his mouth."

"If you do that in front of Tormund, you might have to keep on cutting or he'd never leave you alone," the same lord responded. There was a loud clattering sound and a man inside gave a pained grunt before more laughter rang out.

"Hal, leave her be. It's not her fault that Talltalker likes 'em big."

"Yes, sir, Lord Snow."

"You little—" There was another sound of a brief scuffle and Tommen turned his gaze to his uncle with a knowing look.

"Yes, they are fearsome assassins indeed," Tommen said with as serious a tone as he could manage. Jaime resisted the urge to cuff his son on the back of the head and turned to the door, knocking twice with his good hand.

There was a murmured confusion before the door was opened by the largest woman Tommen had ever seen. Still somewhat hidden by Jaime's figure, it was clear that he wasn't quite visible to the woman who's attention was entirely seized by the Kingsguard.

"Ser Jaime!" the woman exclaimed, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying very hard not to let the king get himself killed." At Jaime's words, Tommen was in shock. Jaime, his suave and confident Uncle Jaime, was scrambling for words in the face of this woman. Peering at her, Tommen noticed that this woman—Lady Brienne, he supposed—wasn't an unattractive woman, but _gods_ was she tall.

As if processing his words late, Brienne of Tarth's eyes suddenly scanned the hallway, immediately landing on Tommen with surprise.

"Your grace," she greeted, dipping into a rushed bow and nearly slamming her head into Jaime's, who still stood quite close to the door. Realizing their closeness, the two both took an awkward step apart and Tommen found his loss for words continued. He didn't know overmuch about love, but Tommen wasn't a complete idiot; Jaime—strong, matchless, unyielding Uncle Jaime—was _infatuated_.

The situation was almost laughable, but Tommen was happy to see any sort of affection in this wretched place. Brienne of Tarth and Ser Jaime the Kingslayer; surely the world had seen an odder coupling, even if Tommen couldn't name one.

* * *

The meeting with the northerners wasn't of any great length, but Tommen succeeded in informing the northern party that he would make himself available once they've had some time to recover from their journey south. The boy king invited them to explore the keep and the city as they pleased, but was careful to remind them that there were many visitors in the Red Keep, and not all of them had fought alongside the North in recent battles. High tensions were to be expected, but Tommen assured Lady Brienne and her party that no aggression was to be tolerated. Any parties found guilty of instigating violence while in King's Landing to parley with the crown would be expelled from the city with none of their grievances settled.

Overall, Jaime was glad that Tommen wasn't a complete idiot. If he were honest with himself, he had expected an entirely different scenario when Tommen had set off for Breakspear Tower—he had convinced himself that Tommen aimed to get their list of grievances scarcely an hour after they'd entered the keep. Regardless of Tommen's work to appease the North, there was still much work to be done.

The day after the northerners arrived at King's Landing, a small council meeting was held in their new meeting place: the antechamber off of the throne room where Tommen had taken to meeting house representatives.

"Thank you for joining me," Tommen said as his greeting as he stepped into the chamber. "Please, stay seated. In case you haven't been introduced, Lord Randyll, this is Lady Thena Lynderly. As of today, she will serve as our Master of Whispers."

Tarly shifted in his seat slightly as the woman that had entered behind Tommen took her own seat. Lady Thena's age was hard to pin down, she could say she was twenty or forty and Randyll wouldn't have believed either answer. She had Andal coloring with honey hair and bright blue eyes, and a simple, dark gown that contrasted heavily against the pallor of her skin. She was pretty enough, Randyll supposed, but no great beauty. Still, she took her seat with highborn grace and a demure smile.

"My lords, your grace," she murmured quietly. Recommended to the crown by House Moore, she was the first serious recommendation that Tommen had considered. As a member of a lesser house of the Vale, Thena likely believed that she had been appointed in the hopes of drawing more accurate information on the North through her ties in the Vale. It wasn't a complete lie, but Tommen hoped that House Moore—a house that had produced a Kingsguard in the recent past—wouldn't lead the crown astray.

"In the interest of bringing Lady Thena up to speed, I'd suggest reviewing the small council's latest decisions." When Tommen nodded to Randyll, he continued, leaning towards Thena. "His grace's chief concern of late has been the upsurge of nobility in King's Landing, a direct result of his missive inviting houses to safely air their grievances and concerns with the crown. Recently we've called for increased training for City Watchmen and increased its size from nine to sixteen hundred men. So far, the increase in manpower and training has seen a general decrease in crime, though you'd have to see the commander for exact numbers.

"Until a new master of coin can be found, I've started to go through Baelish and Tyrion's notes independently. From what I've seen so far, the debt of the crown is exceptional, with the debts to House Lannister being slight compared to what we owe the Iron Bank. Moving into a winter expected to be the longest in memory, I can say that the smallfolk will feel this strain.

"Projects to improve city morale since the destruction of the sept are underway, chiefly the construction of the memorial garden, still to be named, that will stand where the Sept of Baelor once stood."

Randyll continued to list the proceedings of the small council as Lady Thena listened, interrupting occasionally to ask a clarifying question. When Randyll was finished, Thena leaned forward in her chair.

"We have much work to do to stabilize the country before winter settles in, then, don't we?" She hummed to herself, folding her hands in front of her. "There are whispers and rumors of more of our kingdoms declaring for itself. The North is declaring the bastard Jon Snow as King. Dorne has thrown in with the Daenerys Targaryen. Half of the Iron Fleet is declared for the Dragon Queen, and the remainder is led by Euron Greyjoy, who hasn't yet declared for anyone."

"We'll need his ships if we want to repel Daenerys when she attacks King's Landing," Randyll grumbled. "With every other fleet in Westeros destroyed, the Greyjoys own the sea. It's just a matter of which ones will own enough to try to bargain with us."

"Do we know what any of them want?" Tommen asked, looking to Thena. She frowned.

"We have whispers of course. Yara Greyjoy has declared for Daenerys because she promised them limited sovereignty of the Iron Islands, so long as the Iron Islands follow the laws of the Seven Kingdoms."

"The Ironborn follow the laws? Raiding and raping are in their blood; those savages wouldn't know how to follow our laws if we castrated the lot of them," Randyll scoffed.

"All I can report is what I've heard, my lord," Thena replied impartially. "Yara's fleet is lost to us. Euron's may not be."

"Does anyone at this table really believe that Euron Greyjoy would be a good ally?" Jaime asked incredulously. "The man killed his brother to be king. He wants dominion, not alliances."

"True, but a man like that is predictable," Randyll mused. "We could use his interests against him if need be."

"We could offer something to placate his desire for the crown," Thena suggested. "He has no heirs or wife. If we could persuade him that a legacy is more valuable to him than a throne, he may declare for the crown."

"We're rather low on marriable girls to parcel away," Jaime countered quickly. "There's no one close enough to crown to offer that he would consider."

"There is one unmarried woman close to the crown," Randyll disagreed. The look Jaime sent his way was positively poisonous and Randyll shook his head. "Lady Cersei has not yet gone through the change. Tywin made that perfectly clear in setting up the marriage between his daughter and Ser Loras. Obviously that didn't work out, but she remains unmarried and is of a similar age to Euron. They may be well suited."

"He _murdered_ his brother."

"And your sister would very much like Tyrion's head, wouldn't she?"

"Tommen." Jaime switched tactics, looking to his son. "Tommen, she is your mother. Not a bargaining chip."

"Marriage is a traditional tool to bind houses together as allies, your grace. Sentiment will not save your city if it is under siege. Euron must be met with, and he must be brought to heel," Randyll finished.

Tommen remained silent as he looked between the two men. He turned his gaze to Thena.

"Lady Thena, what are your thoughts on this matter?"

"My thoughts, your grace? I don't think I'm qualified to say."

"You're a member of this council, as well as its only woman. I do believe you're qualified to weigh in," Tommen said with an encouraging smile.

"Perhaps you could discuss the potential with the Queenmother, you grace? So few women are able to have any type of opinion on marriage. She may be agreeable, or she may have a different perspective to offer. She was queen for many years and was a critical diplomat for the crown's domestic interests."

"Perhaps…"

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, Sansa's feet were as unsteady as her heartbeat. Starks were not born for the sea as the Ironborn were, and Sansa hardly felt like the strong and powerful Wardeness of the North when her stomach rolled in time with the waves.

"One does get used to the sea, m'lady." Ah, Ser Davos. Jon had insisted, perhaps reasonably, that she bring at least one advisor with her to the Dragonstone when she had decided to leave Podrick behind. Privately, she was grateful for the man's presence. His dry wit was entertaining, and, if the worst should happen, she wouldn't die alone.

"I very much doubt it, Ser Davos, but I appreciate your kindness." Sansa's words were dull even to her ears; her eyes were much focused on the company awaiting their small rowboat. On the grey-black beach of Dragonstone was an odd assortment of people. Many were clearly guards—the famous Unsullied and infamous Dothraki that Sansa had heard about—but there were two individuals that captured her attention: a woman dressed rather immodestly for the cool weather and a painfully familiar dwarf. Sansa couldn't see the expression on Tyrion's face just yet, and a new wave of misery washed over her at the sudden realization: after so much separation, and while she was so in need of allies, she was more likely to throw up on her greeters than to impress them. Still, she got out of the rowboat with all the grace that she could manage and came before the party, Ser Davos faithfully half a step behind her.

 _Tyrion_.

He was rougher than Sansa remembered, but she supposed she was more jagged than she had been at his last sight. His beard had grown out in a sort of unkempt way, and his once gold-spun hair had become much darker despite the Essos sun. His skin was tanned, contrasting the paleness of the scar that extended across his face in a way that so many others would probably view as unkind, unattractive, but that scarred visage had been Sansa's safe haven for so long that she couldn't help but feel some sort of relief at seeing it. He was well dressed, and a pin on his chest declared him as Hand. He had done much for himself since they'd last seen each other.

As Sansa's eyes studied Tyrion's figure, his combed over her appearance with a hunger so strong that he was nearly staggered by its weight. Sansa, for all the weakness and softness she had once been, had come to embody the steel and beauty that Tyrion had always seen. In her he saw what others might misjudge to be Catelyn Stark's nerve, but what he knew to be borne from Sansa's own mind. He had always known her to beautiful, but now she was beautiful as a Valyrian steel sword was: elegant and immeasurably valuable, but deadly sharp to any who would dare cross it.

The two remained locked in this unmovable stance in silence as both parties sized their opponents. Ser Davos nodded with respect to the woman beside Tyrion, to which she responded with a small smile, but silence reigned as Tyrion and Sansa continued to gaze at each other.

"The disgraced daughter." A flippant bow and suddenly a smile found its way to Sansa's lips. With a handful of words, she could pretend for a moment that the pain and horrors she'd endured since leaving King's Landing were but nightmares. Tyrion, for all that his appearance changed and all that he'd seen, still kept his way with words and his—though perhaps unknowingly gained—access to her heart.

"My lord the demon monkey." A curtsey and Tyrion's rooted stance fell away. He approached the woman that had once been his wife with a smile firmly planted on his face and Sansa's heart warmed. She held out her hand to him as he reached for her, covering one of her hands with both of his. "I'm glad to see you so well, Tyrion."

"Am I truly the one that is well, Lady Wardeness? I've found very little good wine and almost less good company to be had. I'm sure even the dreary North would be a holiday from this place some days." Tyrion, as if remembering they were not alone, looked past Sansa to Ser Davos. "Forgive my poor manners. I'm Tyrion Lannister."

"Davos Seaworth."

"Ah, the Onion Knight," Tyrion recalled as the two shook hands. "We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater Bay."

"Unluckily for me," Davos said, his voice a low rumble. Tyrion seemed to hide a wince and looked to his companion.

"This is Missandei. She is the queen's most trusted advisor."

"Welcome to Dragonstone. Our queen knows this is a long journey. She appreciates the effort you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons…?"

Sansa focused on Tyrion's open expression to distract herself from the thought of leaving them so valuable as she forced herself to nod. Davos removed the little-used sword at his belt and Sansa herself took the dagger she'd begun to carry from her waist, offering it hilt-first to a Dothraki screamer. Once the northerners were unarmed, the party began to move away from the beach. As Davos kept pace with Missandei, Tyrion and Sansa found themselves falling behind on the narrow path.

"I feel that we should trade stories, my lady," Tyrion commented lightly as they walked. "I find myself interested in your journey since we saw each other last."

"If you'd like, but it's rarely a happy story," Sansa replied softly. "The very recent past is the happiest of the tale, and it ended to a Stark going south to answer a Targaryen. We shall both learn how the narrative progresses from here."

"I know no words would convince you, nor should they, but I hope you believe me when I say that Daenerys is not her father. She is… different. I believe in her." At Tyrion's words, an unwanted pang of something brushed against her heart. She swallowed past the discomfort.

"I'm sure she has a great story to tell as well… Though perhaps not so great a tale as how the Imp of Casterly Rock became Hand to Daenerys Targaryen."

"Ah, yes. A long and bloody tale. To be honest, I was drunk for most of it."

"I'm glad my lord has not changed beyond recognition, then," Sansa teased lightly. Tyrion mocked-gasped, a hand rising to his heart dramatically.

"I see my lady has not dulled her wit for the sake of our reunion."

"I don't pretend to have any measure of wit. That is entirely within your realm, my lord."

"Tyrion."

"Tyrion," Sansa repeated with a gentle smile. The smile began to falter as she stared up at the imposing castle standing before them. "My brother thinks I'm a fool for coming here. My lords believe the same, though some of them are connecting this foolishness with my being a woman."

"Of course they do. If I was one of your northern lords I wouldn't have let you leave my sight, let alone the North. Stark men don't fare well when they travel south."

"That's true… But I'm not a man, am I?" Sansa allowed herself a dry smile. "Still, I've done what no politician should, and trusted a potential enemy. That is what we are now, is it not?"

Before Tyrion could think of a reply, a loud roar tore through the air. Before Sansa could focus her attention to anything, an arm roughly caught at her waist and pulled her onto the stone floor. A body rested over hers, and it was only the heady smell of salt— _Davos not Ramsay, Davos not Ramsay_ —that kept Sansa from crying out in panic. She lifted her head just in time to see a massive beast fly over her, its powerful wings sending it careening towards, then around, the castle.

When Sansa came to her senses, she realized that Tyrion is holding out a hand for her, a wry smile on his face. Everyone but the Northmen were still standing proud, and she flushed with embarrassment at the display of weakness. Still, she accepted Tyrion's hand and mumbled a thank to Davos as he brushed himself off, eyes still locked on the dragon settling in the distance.

"I'd say you get used to them, but you never really do… Come, my lady wife. Their mother is waiting for you."

* * *

Posted 15:48, 5.8.18

Updated 16:58, 3.12.19


	7. Chapter 7

It was at a small council meeting that Tommen's attention was turned westward. It was Lady Thena and all of her whispers that brought forward the increasing difficulty to feed the ravenous population of King's Landing. Without provisions from the outside, the citizenry would find their own ways to eat.

"To my knowledge, the population of King's Landing is roughly 670,000 people. With the supplies currently stockpiled in the capitol, we have how many years of provisions?"

"If we're not sieged, and able to draw water and resources from the towns just outside the walls? Three years of grain, less of other foodstuffs."

"And after the three years?" Tommen asked seriously. Jaime frowned at the question; Tommen knew the answer, even if he didn't like it.

"I believe Baelish, the former Master of Coin, answered that question with _we'll have fewer peasants_. That will be especially true for King's Landing. Installing Bronn in the City Watch again may remove or deter thieves, but it's always been the smallfolk that starve during long winters," Jaime reminded Tommen. The young king scowled at the thought.

"We need Highgarden, and we need it protected," Tommen said decidedly. "With the reinforcement of the City Watch, could we send a detachment of soldiers to fortify Highgarden from attack?"

"You think it would be a target for Daenerys Targaryen?" Randyll asked sharply.

"I think Daenerys Targaryen is a fool if she doesn't at least attempt to gain the Reach. Tyrion is her Hand, and he knows how this kingdom runs better than most anyone alive. If we lose Highgarden, if we lose that source of food, King's Landing will eat itself and all of us with it within two years. And, with the death of her family at the sept, the Queen of Thorns might just be content to watch the show," Jaime concluded grimly. "We could send a detachment, but they are currently without a commander."

"Are they?" Tommen asked pointedly, looking at his uncle. Jaime took a moment to set his face into a hard mask.

"I'm the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. My place is in King's Landing, defending you."

"Do you want to send Lannister men-at-arms to Highgarden with just my word that they are there for Lady Olenna's protection? Lord Tarly, do you believe that anyone outside of the Westerlands would be happy to see Lannister men at their doorstep? You've known Lady Olenna for most of your lives. As a man of the Reach, do you believe that House Tyrell would welcome lions into their home?"

"No, your grace."

"Uncle, there is already enough suspicion against House Lannister." _Because of Mother_ , Jaime could nearly hear him say. "Take the soldiers to the Reach. Fortify the Goldroad and Highgarden, then return to King's Landing when they have been settled and Lady Olenna comfortable with their presence."

"Understood, your grace." Jaime's jaw was hard-cut with defiance, but Tommen was right. With Olenna no-doubt suspicious enough of anyone in red or gold, there needed to be a face attached to the soldiers that, while not necessarily friendly, wouldn't immediately provoke attack. Soldiers on their own also tended to collect collateral damage; having out-of-line Lannister men raping Reach maidens would do nothing to ingratiate them to the crown.

Jaime's vows bid him to follow the order, but, as Tommen carried out with the small council meeting, Jaime desperately wished he could stay right where he was.

* * *

It was amazing how quickly a few words could break the thick boredom of hours of sitting still. Tommen had sorely felt Jaime's absence since his uncle left the capitol, and he'd resolved himself to listening to the complaints of this-or-that house without his uncle's dry comments in his ear. Still, after dismissing House Morrigen, his retainer's announcement still piqued his interest.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth to see you, your grace, for House Stark."

"Send her in," Tommen called, sitting up straighter in his chair and glancing at the growing body of advisors at his side. After a lengthy election process, a new grandmaester had finally been chosen and had arrived at King's Landing shortly after Jaime's departure. The man—an imaginative old soul named Tylan that had served in the Citadel as Archmaester of Gold—was nearer to his seventies than he was to his sixties and Tommen privately doubted that the man would survive the winter. Though, with Daenerys likely getting restless on Dragonstone just across the bay, there was no guarantee that any of them would survive the winter. He hoped that, at least with the new grandmaester's background in economics and accounting, the crown's debt may be lessened when Tommen finally rejoined Margaery.

"My lords, your grace," Brienne greeted the room as she entered, a bundle and a packet of papers in her arms, pausing her stride ever so slight so that she could bow. Tommen gave a nod of acknowledgment before gesturing to the chair sat across the table from him. His advisors hadn't originally approved of this layout—they had believed that allowing representatives to sit so close and at an even level as the young king would disrupt the balance of power against them but Tommen had been insistent. All supplicants were screened by the Kingsguard, and all weapons taken from them before meeting with the king, and the closeness to his person seemed to encourage trust. At least Tommen hoped it did. He wanted his people to be able to put their trust in him, but he also wanted to deserve it.

Before taking her seat, Brienne stood with a hand resting on the back of the chair.

"Sit, please," Tommen offered, looking again towards the chair. Brienne still hesitated.

"Before anything is said…" Brienne reached into a pocket in her loose jacket and retrieved a small cloth bundle, placing it on the table in front of Tommen. "Lady Sansa bid me give that to you."

Tommen had hardly untied the package before his breath caught raggedly in his throat. Sansa had always been a master with a needle. Delicately stitched onto pale grey silk, a beautiful portrait of Margaery Tyrell smiled softly, laughing eyes directed down ever so slightly, her hair a carefully spun collection of dark red threads and her features lovingly molded from tiny stitches of gold. There was no crown on this Margaery's head, no tension behind her smile. This was Margaery as Tommen wanted to remember her, untarnished by pain and horror.

Part of him that sounded suspiciously like Jaime quietly whispered that Sansa was a more dangerous opponent than he had considered—that the combined color scheme of Lannister and Stark houses was a calculated decision and no mere coincidence—but the rest of him was profoundly grateful to the young woman who had called Margaery friend. As Tommen raised the fabric, revealing it as a handkerchief, a piece of paper bearing Sansa's script fell from the wrapping.

 _Tommen,_

 _I hope you don't see this as a political play or an offense. I've found myself returning to my needle to escape my newest duties. Restoring order in the North has been a long and tiresome affair that seems as if it will never finish, so I can't conceive the stress you are under trying to restore peace in the rest of the kingdoms. It is rewarding work, though, to know that you are trying to leave this world a better place than you found it, so I hope you're getting whatever satisfaction you can from it._

 _Along with this, which I hope you view as a gift, Brienne bears the combined grievances of the North. You are a king as I am Wardeness of the North; I hope you understand when I say that the grievances of all my people are my own. Again, Brienne speaks with my voice. Please treat her honorably. She has defended me faithfully and left my side reluctantly._

 _Sansa Stark_

 _Wardeness of the North_

"That is a cruel trick to play on a grieving husband," Tylan stated coolly as Tommen collected his composure.

"No," Tommen disagreed, looking at the handkerchief for a long moment before folding it carefully and tucking it into his coat. "Queen Margaery was a dear friend of Lady Sansa long before she was my wife. I am not alone entitled to mourn what we've lost… For you to get here, to leave Winterfell so soon after receiving my letter… She must have worked quickly to complete it."

"Lady Sansa is determined, your grace," Brienne said as she finally took her seat. Sansa had worked quickly indeed. Nearly as soon as she'd heard of Margaery's death, she'd returned to her needle as a distraction. It was only when she realized who's image she was creating did Sansa understand the potential ramifications that such a gift could impart. She had worked at that square of silk for hours at a time, working at it while listening to grievances and taking turns between writing and sewing and little else in the days before Brienne and their company left for King's Landing.

"Determined, and also in open rebellion of the crown. Her brother, a bastard, is named King in the North and she does not counsel against it?" Randyll Tarly questioned sharply.

"I did not travel a thousand miles so that my lady can be insulted by a man who accepted his position to reduce the likelihood of the Reach joining the North in open rebellion," Brienne retorted without a breath's hesitation. "Jon Snow is King in the North because the northern lords are tired of serving an apathetic southern king. No disrespect meant to you, your grace, but nothing you've done so far has given the North and its people that you will be any kinder to them than your brother."

"King Joffrey—" Tylan began heatedly.

"Was cruel, impulsive, and volatile," Tommen interrupted. "King Joffrey took great joy in torturing Lady Sansa when she was held hostage here. Grandmaester, Lord Tarly, please allow Lady Brienne to speak. The people of the North are justifiably apprehensive. Lady Brienne took what I'm sure every northerner believed to be an unnecessary risk in coming here, and I'd like to see what can be done to make sure her journey wasn't wasted."

"Thank you. I won't mince words. House Stark is unable to trust the crown, but the North is facing a threat that is nearly too fantastic to be believed and more dangerous for it." Brienne paused long enough to shuffle through the packet of papers she had brought with her. "Lady Sansa did not want me to have only my word to aim to convince you, but there are few sources on the subject that are both recent and considered reliable." She pushed several of the papers—maps, essays, and articles on the topic—across the table.

"White walkers?" the grandmaester asked, laughing at the suggestion. "Your great northern threat is a fairy tale designed to scare children into behavior for their parents?"

"They are real. It was chiefly a concern during your brother's reign, but did you hear of the wildlings gathering in great numbers?"

"Yes… And as I recall, Jon Snow allowed them through the Wall. The first Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to willingly let a wildling into the Seven Kingdoms," Tommen commented lightly. Brienne nodded.

"The wildlings were gathered by a man named Mance Rayder, a wildling that had been raised by the Night's Watch that turned. Jon was captured by Mance in his time as a brother of the Night's Watch, and saw the army of the dead several times. He decided, against the wishes of his brothers, to evacuate the wildlings into the North so that they would be safe from this threat. Most of them were bolstered here, at Hardhome," Brienne said, pointing to the map in front of Tommen. "But the evacuation was interrupted by an attack. The dead do not need rest, they do not need supplies. Everybody they kill—man, woman, child—is a new body for their army. And there is little more than ice separating the North from them. If the North falls, the army of the dead will continue. They can be killed, but the North does not have the men to defend it."

"An army of the dead?"

"Old maesters referred to the dead as wights. White walkers raise the dead to act as foot soldiers. Mance led a hundred thousand wildlings. Less than five thousand made it on our side of the Wall."

"Even if we believed these outrageous claims, what would the North ask of us?" Tarly asked.

"The Wall was designed to separate the threat of white walkers from the kingdoms, and its management remained independent of the kingdoms to allow it to function. The North needs your support, but it can't trust your management. If the Wall falls, Jon Stark and his bannermen are all that stands between your families and the dead."

"You want us to send men and supplies North, knowing we won't see any return on that investment?"

"The return is that some of us might survive this winter…" Brienne placed the North's grievances in front of the king. "These are the grievances Lady Sansa compiled from the northern lords."

"Well… it is certainly a… _complete_ list," Randyll muttered snidely.

"We'll have to revise this list on our own to gauge the equanimity of these grievances," Tommen said as diplomatically as he could at the document before him. "Is there anything we could do to improve your stay?"

"I have no complaints. Though if I could, may I use your ravens to communicate with my lady?"

"Of course. When you've finished your scroll, seek Tylan out. He will help you."

"Yes, your grace," the new grandmaester grumbled. "I am here to assist."

* * *

Davos had warned her that Dragonstone was different from his memory, but she had nothing to base her own reflections on, so Sansa turned her attention to the people. Even so, all she could be really sure of was that the beautiful woman that awaited them within the castle, surprisingly young and perched on a throne of dragon glass and stone shaped to look like dragon scales, was not an opponent that believed in fair play.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains."

Davos mumbled out Sansa's admittedly short title— _oh, and this is Lady Sansa Stark. She's Wardeness of the North_ —and Sansa's polite smile hardened over ever so slightly. No, this woman did not believe in a level battlefield. While she didn't appreciate the antagonism, she could respect Daenerys's tenacity.

"Thank you for traveling so far, my lady, my lord. I hope the seasons weren't too rough."

"The winds were kind, your grace."

"I'm glad." Daenerys's pale eyes were sharp as they tore apart Sansa's appearances as quickly as Ramsay's dogs could devour a man. "So, my lady, you are the sister to the one declared as King in the North."

"Yes."

"Hm. Forgive me, Lady Stark, but the last King in the North was Torren Stark who bent the knee to my ancestor Aegon Targaryen in exchange for his life and the lives of the northmen. Torren Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Now, I may not have received a formal education, but in perpetuity means—what does perpetuity me, Lord Tyrion?"

"Forever."

"Forever," Daenerys echoed, a satisfied smirk curling her lips. "So I assume, my lady, that you're here to bend the knee in your brother's stead."

"Forgive me, your grace, but you're incorrect." Sansa squared her shoulders. "The last King in the North was the Young Wolf, Robb Stark. And it was not Targaryens that defeated him, but Houses Lannister, Frey, and Bolton, two of which are now gone, just like Torren and Aegon. I am not here to bend the knee."

"Oh, well that is unfortunate. You've travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?"

"There is no faith left to break. Aegon and Torren's oath was that Starks would bend the knee to House Targaryen in exchange for the safety for the northmen. King Aerys broke faith when he burned my grandfather and my uncle alive."

"My father was an evil man. On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father… Our two houses were allies for centuries. Those were the best centuries the kingdom's ever known; centuries of peace and prosperity with the Targaryens sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden, or Wardeness, of the North. I am the last Targaryen. Honor the pledge your ancestors made to mine. Bend the knee and you will keep your place as Wardeness of the North. Together we can save this country from those who would destroy it."

"I acknowledge your desire for the throne, and I acknowledge that you do have a stronger birthright to it than those currently in power. But that doesn't change the fact that the North has bled too many times for southern wars. If I bend the knee to you now, the North will have to fight in your war for the throne."

"So you won't bend the knee?"

"No."

"Then why have you come?"

"Because you're right. I need your help just as you need mine."

"I need _your_ help? Tell me, Lady Stark, did you see three dragons flying overhead as you arrived?"

"I did."

"And did you see the Dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?"

"Of course, I did."

"But still, you say I need your help?" Daenerys asked, voice teetering dangerously between amused and displeased. Davos chuckled from behind Sansa, answering before she could.

"Not to take the throne. You could storm King's Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hell, we almost took it and we didn't have dragons."

"Almost," Tyrion reminded Davos quietly. The once-smuggler winced at the jab.

"Cersei is not the large threat. Give her own son enough time and he may succeed in removing her on his own," Sansa began. Daenerys was not one to leave a point unsaid, unfortunately, and began speaking before Sansa could continue.

"Still leaving either a bastard or the son of a usurper on my throne."

"You want the throne. You want the North back in the fold. I understand that; you believe that it is your birthright just as strongly as I believe it is my home. In order for you to have a chance of gaining the North as either ally or vassal, you need to defend it. The war you're planning with King's Landing is not what will determine the future of Westeros. The true enemy is north."

"As far as I can see, you are the enemy to the north." Her eyes darted to Tyrion. "You told me she was smart."

Before Tyrion could even attempt a defense, Sansa decided to begin to take Jon's approach. Clearly this woman wouldn't understand her if she attempted any sort of tact or subtlety.

"Lord Tyrion. You knew Jon briefly. You travelled to the Wall together. Did he strike you as a madman or a fool? Or perhaps a coward?"

"No, he's none of those things."

"Then let me tell you that Jon Snow saw the true enemy when he was north of the Wall. The enemy is _death_."

"The enemy is death?" Daenerys asked loftily.

"The dead. White walkers are alive and moving. And before you say that white walkers aren't real, or before you say that they are dead and gone, I will remind you that I just saw three living dragons. The dead are marching south, and they do not sleep. They do not require rest, and they do not go down easily. If you, Tommen, and Cersei are still fighting amongst yourselves over a pile of melted steel, we're all finished."

Silence rang out in the hall for a moment as Daenerys stared Sansa down. Only when she allowed her eyes to break away, to stare at her ancestral home, did Daenerys speak.

"I was born here at Dragonstone, not that I can remember it… We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now of course. I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a brood mare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea— _any sea_. They did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will."

Through the length of Daenerys's impromptu speech, she rose from her throne and began to slowly walk down the steps of the dais towards Sansa. The queen stared down at Sansa as if she expected the Wardeness to be cowed. In this, Daenerys had underestimated her opponent: the lady Stark was not one to be silenced, not anymore.

"I'm curious, your grace, how much, exactly, did Lord Tyrion tell you about my life? Surely not all of it… He was only in it so briefly. He didn't get to watch as my aunt tried to throw me through the Moon Door, only to be flung through it herself. He didn't get to watch as I was sold to the men who butchered my brother and mother, to be raped, defiled, tortured in the very keep I'd been raised in. He didn't watch as I jumped from the walls of Winterfell with my only friend a man who had betrayed my family, a man that you now call an ally. He wasn't there when it was _me_ the Knights of the Vale rode for. When _I_ was the one that won back my home. I may not have hatched dragons, but you do not get to ignore my scars simply because you wear yours as trophies of your struggle."

The two young women stared at each other, daring the other to break first. Sansa, stubborn as ever, refused to back down even as her breathing grew unsteady during her reply. The tension in the room grew unbearable as the two opposing daughters challenged each other, with none able to break the miasma.

Just as Sansa's resolve began to wane— _if Daenerys felt threatened, the North would need a new warden_ —something in Daenerys's eyes softened and she relaxed her posture ever so slightly. Like an overfilled balloon, the pressure rushed out at the smallest opening and Sansa shifted her weight so that she wasn't standing as aggressively. Daenerys wasn't appeased, but she wasn't angry.

"The North will not declare for me."

"We will not declare for anything but the North. I am unconcerned with who sits on the throne, but I cannot bend the knee to anyone if it means risking the other's potential as an ally in this war. And I truly mean that. My brother… He's walked with giants and negotiated with kings. He banded northmen and wildings together, the first person in our history to do so. He was named King in the North not because his father was Ned Stark, or because he's half-decent with a sword. My brother is King in the North because, for the first time in history, everyone that calls the North home recognizes a bastard as their best chance. We believe in him. And with all that, anything that can terrify my brother like the white walkers do is my only concern."

"If that's your only concern, then kneel," Tyrion pressed when Sansa finally finished. She shook her head, a sad smile on her face. "If you don't care who sits the throne, declare for Daenerys. Help us defeat Cersei and we will defend the North against any threats it faces."

"I'm the Wardeness of the North, my lord. I cannot make decisions because they are easy, but because they are what is best for my people… In truth, I think Cersei may be a smaller threat than you believe her to be."

"It is under the rule of Cersei Lannister that so many people suffer," Daenerys insisted.

"Cersei Lannister is no longer unopposed in her reign. One of the targets of her attack on the Sept of Baelor was her son's wife. Tommen seeks justice for Margaery, and for all thousand injured or killed in the attack. It's only a matter of time before Cersei overplays her hand and gets caught."

"A son persecutes his mother?"

"Cersei is very good at making herself difficult to like," Tyrion commented mildly. Varys entered the room from a side door, quickly making his way to Daenerys's side. He leaned close, murmuring something that Sansa couldn't quite hear, but whatever it was made the Dragon Queen pale.

"You must forgive my manners, Lady Sansa, Ser Davos. You will both be tired after your long journey. We'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms."

"Can I write my brother? My sworn sword?" Sansa called after the claimant queen. The brief, almost dismissive nod Daenerys sent Sansa before disappearing with Missandei and Tyrion was not altogether reassuring. At least Tyrion had the decency to look somewhat chastised before he followed his queen.

 _Men_.

* * *

Posted 13:37, 5.21.18

Updated 11:41, 5.26.18

Updated 17:00, 3.12.19


	8. Chapter 8

It hadn't been a surprise to get a letter from King's Landing. After all, the crown needed ships and Euron had plenty to go around. It _had_ been a bit of a surprise to get two.

Tommen's letter had gotten to him first, summoning him to King's Landing to discuss the sovereignty of the Iron Islands and the treasonous behavior of little Theon and Yara. What Tommen failed to understand, however, was that Euron didn't want to be given anything. If he didn't earn it, if he didn't make someone hurt and bleed for it, if he didn't _rip_ what he wanted from someone's clammy hands, that takes the fun out of it. Tommen was soft, and Euron had enough of soft, bleeding-heart highborn who didn't earn a thing in their lives.

Cersei… Now _that_ was a woman. Euron supposed he could forgive her for having been born with the means of success—after all, they might just become his soon enough—but she wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty to get what she wanted. Her letter had been brutally direct and Euron had been more than happy to answer the call of a damsel in distress. Her terms were easily met, after all. What she wanted from him—destroy the opposing Greyjoy fleet, bring her the heads of her enemies—wasn't far off from what he planned to do from the beginning. The biggest change in plan for him was that he'd have the world's most beautiful woman and a crown waiting for him when he had had that day's fill of battle.

Tommen's prissy attempt at politics made the matter a bit more awkward to navigate—it would be inconvenient if the boy caught onto what was happening before it was done—but there was only one way this ended. Cersei would be queen again, Tommen would be close and safe enough to keep her from whining about him, and Euron would be king. Fuck the rest.

Blood beginning to boil at the sheer notion of it, a savage grin split Euron's face.

The would-be Iron Fleet was in sight. Let the battle begin.

* * *

As Jon met with Wolkan, Royce, and what felt like a thousand other people—lords, servants, men, women alike—he regretted intensely allowing Sansa to leave the North. He was king, sure, but he didn't fool himself into believing he had any sort of gift for management. Hell, he didn't understand why the fools couldn't have named Sansa Queen in the North and been done with it. He didn't want to be king, he didn't want to be warden, and now he was both.

Jon wanted to live a simple life. Sure, he had wanted to be recognized as a Stark, but he truly wanted to be brother to those he held as siblings. When he joined the Night's Watch, he wanted to serve something higher than himself, to defend those who couldn't defend himself, but ultimately he wanted to find his own place in the world. With Ygritte, he merely wanted to live, to love someone because he could and because she'd have him. With all the oaths and vows weighing him down now, it became painfully clear that Jon Snow, despite his bastardry, would never be allowed a simple life.

The one thing that Jon could be grateful for in Sansa's absence was that Baelish had calmed down remarkably. Jon did not trust Baelish in the North, and especially didn't trust him anywhere near his sister. It had been Baelish that had sold Sansa like a broodmare to the Boltons; he was directly responsible for so much of her suffering that Jon felt a burning desire to bury Longclaw in the man whenever he was in the same room. Perhaps, Jon reflected, that was Baelish's principal reason in distancing himself from the king now. Either way, whatever Baelish's reasoning, Jon was happy for the space. He had a strong feeling that he'd lose the support of the Knights of the Vale—and the trust of his sister—if he carried out his fantasies of running Baelish through, even if it would be so satisfying to watch that snake's body burn.

"Your grace!"

"What now?" Jon caught himself complaining and his eyes immediately scanned his surroundings for search of Tormund. If the Talltalker ever caught wind of Jon whinging like a little girl, Jon Snow—for all his titles and duties—would never hear the end of it.

"In the courtyard—It's—"

The man who had interrupted Jon's walk around Winterfell—walking, not brooding, despite whatever Tormund says—had caught him close enough to the outer courtyard that Jon could hear people milling about in some sort of excitement. With a scowl at the ready, Jon changed his direction to take him towards the direction of the courtyard.

There, nestled in furs and in open disregard of his presumed death, lay Brandon Stark.

Jon's pace faltered ever so slightly at the sight of his brother. _Bran_. _Bran was alive!_ Then he was nearly running. People melted out of his way, or perhaps he pushed them, as he approached his long-lost brother.

"Bran!" He half climbed onto the cart that had delivered Bran safely to Winterfell, hands clutching at furs and shoulders and whatever he could reach to assure himself that what he was seeing wasn't false, wasn't some illusion of his mind. Jon pulled back for enough of a moment to reassure himself that his brother's eyes were their expected darkness and not the icy blue that haunted his days and nights before pulling his brother close again.

"Jon. We have much to talk about."

* * *

Varys was a malicious little twit, but he had such beautiful little birds.

Cersei had spent time and money cultivating her own army of birds, inspired by the once-Master of Whispers, and there was little as sweet as finally having the information needed to destroy her enemies. Those little birds were the truest weapon in this game. The little birds had found the Mad King's wildfire cache, and they had lit its flames. The birds had whispered to her of Tommen's misguided plans for the capitol, plans that she was now able to disrupt or encourage at her leisure. The birds had reported when Qyburn met with her dear, sweet boy—when that traitor decided that his petty work was more important than his loyalty to her, the true power in Westeros. No matter; Qyburn would find his own reward for his betrayal before long. The birds had come calling when Tommen, the sweetheart, was being pressured to sell her to a menace like Euron Greyjoy, giving her at least the decency to offer herself as an ally rather than a whore. More immediately, her birds were singing such sweet songs of armies marching.

It was an easy thing to do. Tommen set the chess pieces for her, she only needed to order them to their places. Or rather, change their orders.

The royal seal was not as rare a thing as the king may think. Cersei had been a dutiful regent when Tommen was too young, and there was still a signet bearing the king's mark easily in reach. Once Jaime—Jaime, who hadn't yet returned to her side but would before the snow fell, no doubt—had set off for Highgarden with the Lannister forces at his back, it was easy to send the new order off.

This would solve more than one problem, too. She'd heard rumors of the visitor from the Iron Bank, had heard whispers of the grandmaester's frustration with the man. Tycho was here on the Iron Bank's command, ready to collect the debt the crown had amassed over decades of unsteady and unscrupulous rule. With Highgarden under the crown's thumb, all those riches could be forward directly to the Bank—debt paid, all in one payment. Tywin would be proud.

Whispers were a powerful thing, but they were most powerful when your opponent _didn't_ have them.

Lady Thena of Lynderly was certainly a good gossip, but she was not a master of whispers. If she was, then she would have been able to report to her king that Olenna—the old hag—had long since betrayed them. No, _no_ , it would be Cersei again that would save the kingdoms. It was Cersei that would remind them that she was not one to be forgotten.

Still, it would do well to have a woman like Thena on the council. If Cersei was going to be denied her rightful place in that room, she would settle for having a little bird there.

* * *

"Your grace."

"If you are here to tell me that Petyr Baelish is requesting another public audience, my answer remains the same. I'm not going to waste everyone's time with pretend concerns when we've got an army that doesn't sleep marching on us."

"Yes, your grace, but—"

"But what?"

Jon was not built for this. Then again, he supposed he wasn't much good at anything. He was good at fighting, good at killing, but he didn't want to do those things. He had thought he'd be a good commander of the Night's Watch, and his reward for his service left more than one life time's worth of scars on him. Still, Sansa had left him the North and he refused to let it fall apart because its king was a fool with numbers.

He looked up at the man who had interrupted his work—his very ponderous work involving organizing shipments of grain from each household in the North to Winterfell, as it was the likeliest stronghold against any invasion, be it dragons or lions from the south or the dead from the north. The man at his door that had interrupted such important, though boring, work was a common man-at-arms, a guard that likely should be posted somewhere he currently wasn't. Judging by his companion, a fellow guard, Jon had the sinking suspicion that there was a whole in Winterfell's security that was about two men wide.

"There's a girl. She, well…" The first man's voice drifted off uncertainly and Jon sighed wearily, waving a hand.

"Get on with it."

"She claims to be Arya Stark, your grace," the second asserted. At the name, Jon's mouth turned down in a frown. Arya was dead, had been for years, but Bran had been dead too. Now he sat in the godswood, always assuring Jon that they needed to talk but never saying why, only that he needed to see more. If Bran was alive, why not Arya too? "We told her to piss off, but she was stubborn."

"Where is this girl now?"

"Sat in the courtyard. We told her not to move an inch," the first said with a sure nod.

"Let's see this Arya Stark, then." It was a simple enough test, Jon thought: if the girl had remained as she had been told, then it was not Arya Stark. If the girl was gone…

He didn't let his mind wander down that route until the courtyard— _always the courtyard_ —was in plain sight. When the girl wasn't in plain sight, judging by the sputtering guards, Jon's heart skipped a beat.

"Where is she? We told her to wait right here. She's scarpered off somewhere. I—" The two guards were such a confused mess that Jon could hardly tell which was talking. Mind moving a mile a minute, he hurriedly dismissed the guards back to their posts.

After years of absence, there was one place that Jon had been forced to visit before any other. When he walked into the warm, damp darkness to see another figure hardly distinguishable against the dark, his heart began to race. The darkness began to ebb as the figure—a tiny little thing—began to light one candle, then another at the grave of Eddard Stark.

"It doesn't look like him," a quiet voice said, cutting through the still air like a hot knife through butter as Jon grew close. "The statue should have been made by someone who knew him."

"There aren't many people who knew him left," Jon found himself replying. The small figure turned to face him, and Jon finally was able to see the girl's face in the candlelight. She was older, harder, and calmer than he'd ever imagined her to be, but that messy-haired little beast was, without a shred of doubt, Jon's little sister.

Before his mind registered his feet making the steps, Arya was in his arms, her face buried against his neck. As Jon held her, her body shuddering with unshed sobs or maybe pure relief, he felt like crying himself.

He was home. Bran was home. _Arya_ _was home_. And Sansa was alone, facing an enemy so terrible that a Lannister was chosen as its mouthpiece. The dark of his mind filled with fears, some so dark he could hardly put words to them, but they all revolved around his siblings. He had gotten his childhood wish of recognition, but there was a pressing terror that it had come at the cost of his sister's freedom.

* * *

Dragonstone might have been a beautiful place once, but it was little more than a crypt to Sansa. She didn't understand how anyone could live in this great monstrosity with its too-high ceilings and cold walls and call it home. The stone was still grey, but it would be a disservice to compare this place to Winterfell, with its squat towers and snow-dusted courtyards.

Sansa sat overlooking the sea, an Unsullied guard somewhere behind her as she stared out across the Blackwater Bay. She remembered looking out onto the Blackwater as a girl, wondering where ships were going and what sort of goods they were playing, all desperately hoping that she'd find some way to get onto one of those ships herself. There was no ship in the world that could save her from her current fate, though, not when Daenerys had her ship seized.

"I hear the ravens have been very busy lately."

"And I suppose that you have been sent to get the truth of my correspondence, my lord?" Sansa's reply was dull as she turned to look at Tyrion. Despite the chill that Sansa was enjoying, Tyrion wasn't dressed for the cool sea air and she felt a strange flutter of what may have been concern. The emotion was gone before she could fully understand it, though, and she tried to push it out her mind.

"Not entirely, but I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't instructed to try," Tyrion replied with a cheeky smile.

"And Tyrion Lannister is never a liar."

"I'd like to think I'm honest where it's permitted."

"And were you honest in your inviting me here, my lord?" Eyes drawn back onto the water, Sansa could nearly imagine what it looked like when the Blackwater was ablaze. Ser Davos had spoken of it in hushed tones, when forced. He didn't like to remember the stink of it, but Sansa had been insistent. She wanted to know what sort of death had come for Margaery and, based on Davos's recollections, wildfire was not a pleasant way to go.

"My lady, I didn't—"

"I'm a prisoner on this island, Tyrion. You can disagree, twist words as you like, but I cannot leave. I can't go home."

"I've angered you." He said it as if it were a great realization. Sansa resisted the urge to laugh drily; it wouldn't do to offend the hand of the Dragon Queen, even if she was a stubborn child. "I apologize, I didn't mean to cause you any more pain…"

"It had been a jewel in my necklace," Sansa said suddenly. "That was how Joffrey was killed. Baelish arranged for me to be given the necklace. Lady Olenna took the jewel from my neck during the wedding and placed it in Joffrey's goblet. She was sat right beside him, if you recall."

Sansa wasn't sure what she expected—perhaps for him to curse under his breath or decry his lack of wine—but she wasn't expecting Tyrion to shrug in her peripheral vision. She returned her eyes to him as he spoke.

"Olenna told us when Varys first approached her as a potential ally. I couldn't say I'm surprised, of course. I'm sure Tommen was a kinder husband to Margaery than Joffrey would have been."

"She deserved better."

"Many people do." Tyrion's gaze was on Sansa's, suddenly too heavy for her to hold. She wondered again what might have happened if she'd been in the capitol just a little longer, or if Joffrey had been killed by his own stupidity rather than Olenna and Baelish's plot. Would they have been able to be happy? Probably not, but dreams felt less painful than reality sometimes.

"I fed Ramsay to his own dogs," Sansa found herself confessing. For once, there wasn't a quiver in her voice as she spoke his name and she felt immensely proud of herself. Here, miles and miles away from where it happened, in this place that felt alien and unnatural, she was somehow safe.

"I'd confess my own sins and retributions, but I'm sure you've heard the stories as everyone else did. The Imp murders his own father, strangles a whore, and escapes in the dead of the night… Quite a drama, even for King's Landing." His voice was sardonic, even for his character. For all that he believed in Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion knew that he could never return to being who he was before that night. He was broken, stained by the experience.

"Perhaps we were better matched than we thought," Sansa mused with a wry smile. "You want to know what the letters said?"

"It's okay, I—"

"Jon has a friend from the Night's Watch who found evidence that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of dragonglass, which can be crafted into weapons against the white walkers." Sansa carried on as if Tyrion had not opened his mouth. "My sworn sword is in King's Landing, attempting to negotiate for the king's armies to fight in the real war. Bran is home. Arya is home. And I am here, a thousand miles away playing guest to a queen who will not see me long enough to hear me."

Tyrion was silent for a long moment after her outburst, trying to gauge if the sudden glistening in her eyes was due to sadness or rage and ultimately deciding that either option hurt him to consider. Sansa closed her eyes, swallowing hard to center herself, and took a deep breath.

"Jaime is well. Brienne speaks highly of him whenever they meet."

"Jaime is still in King's Landing, then?" Tyrion asked, grateful for the shift in topic. He'd rather talk about his family than be helpless to prevent Sansa's tears any day of the year.

"Not for long. Tommen's ordered him away on some task, and Brienne wasn't given an idea of how long he'd be away. If I'm honest, much of her correspondence concerned the rudeness of his sudden departure from the capitol than the matters that I sent her to King's Landing for, but I suppose that I deserve that. She was loath to return to the capitol since Joffrey's wedding."

"Jaime's out of the capitol?" Tyrion asked, voice sharp. Sansa frowned, blinking at his urgency.

"Yes, why?"

* * *

Posted 11:41, 5.26.18

Updated 17:02, 3.12.19


	9. Chapter 9

King's Landing was a shit city, but Euron appreciated its place on the water. If he was going to live here, he wanted to be able to get on a ship whenever he got restless. Judging by the crowd now—somber and confused as Euron led his leashed prisoners to the Red Keep—he was sure that he wouldn't want to stay here long. He was delivering traitors to the crown straight to the crown; what more could these lowborn fucks want from him?

He could at least make this fun for himself, he supposed. With a grin, Euron snapped the rope in his hand, yanking Yara in front of his horse. She choked, struggling for breath as the rope tightened around her neck.

"You remember little Theon's face right before he jumped overboard? _Oh no_!" Yara sent a glare towards Euron, but it was weak. She was _broken_ , because of him. "What a twat."

Euron directed the company to the Red Keep, straight into the throne room, where he was admitted without a moment's delay. He could certainly get used to this…

"What is the meaning of this?"

Fucking hell.

"Your grace. I believe that alliances are built on trust, and there's no better way to build trust with a gift." Euron snapped the rope forward once more, bringing Yara to her knees before the Iron Throne, where Tommen I stared at the company with what looked like horror in his eyes. Behind him, Euron could see Cersei smirking at the sight.

 _God,_ he was hard.

"Please accept this gift, these traitors to the crown, on behalf of all of your loyal servants in the Iron Islands. You own the seas once more, and—" Euron kicked Ellaria to her knees before Tommen. "Justice for your murdered sister."

"Thank you, Lord Greyjoy. You've shown yourself to be a true friend of the crown," Tommen said, the words wooden as they dripped from his lips. His eyes were still on the broken figures of the three prisoners before him. "We shall discuss your reward shortly. First—" Tommen waved his hand and several guards came forward to attend to the prisoners. "Take them. They will await trial, and they will be brought to justice for their crimes against the Seven Kingdoms."

Euron felt a shadow of doubt as he was relieved of the prisoners by the goldcloaks that Tommen's wave had summoned, but that doubt melted away as he saw Cersei slip away after them. His grin returned—yes, the two Dornish bitches would find their justice soon enough. He could be secure in Cersei's word, though; Yara would be saved for him. He, after all, had such fun plans in store for his little niece.

* * *

Jaime was in the midst of organizing the lords and officers under his command when the runner came.

"Ser Jaime! Latest from the capitol," the man offered as soon as he was waved in. Jaime took the message, breaking the wax seal at its edge and waving the paper to unfold it with a frown. Tommen had sent him to fortify the Tyrell home hardly more than a week ago; the army only expected the get the castle in their sights tomorrow.

His eyes scanned the paper, then slowed as he read it more carefully. The handwriting wasn't familiar, and the words weren't Tommen's, but he couldn't ignore the royal seal that had stamped the missive. Robert, in his distaste for ruling his kingdom, had issued each small council member a signet, neglecting to collect the signets when members passed or were replaced, dangerously diluting the words of the true king. When Tywin had reclaimed his position as Hand, he had very carefully and systematically destroyed redundant signets bearing the royal seal. Jaime had watched signets get recovered, sometimes by brutal means. The only surviving seal that he knew of now rested on Tommen's hand.

The words weren't Tommen's, but the seal was. Perhaps he was too kind to write this order?

"My lord?" an officer asked when Jaime remained silent for too long.

"Our orders have changed. The Master of Whispers has found evidence that proves House Tyrell is already disloyal to the crown. Lady Olenna has declared for Daenerys Targaryen. Instead of fortifying Highgarden, we're to take it by force. Our end goal obviously changes, but many of our objectives remain the same. Any man-at-arms that will fight for us is a body for the defense of the kingdoms. The grain and goods stockpiled in Highgarden are needed to keep the capitol fed. Limit collateral damage wherever possible."

"And Lady Olenna, sir?"

"I will figure something out for the old bird… Alert your men to the change in plans. We're now considering the Reach as hostile territory until House Tyrell is unseated. Follow the appropriate protocol or I will string every offender and his superior up. Dismissed."

"My lord, sir." Murmurs surrounded Jaime like a suffocating blanket as the men cleared out. When they were gone, Jaime heaved a tired sigh and fell into a chair.

He was growing far too tired of war, too tired of battle. He'd seen the extinction of too many houses—great and small, common and noble—and he found himself here once more, at the edge of a battlefield.

Later, walking through the shell that remained of Highgarden, Jaime remembered the quiet moments he'd been able to enjoy. Most of the men didn't enjoy the silence before a battle, but that quiet was the most beautiful thing in the world to a man like Jaime, a man who had seen a hundred battles and killed a thousand men. The silence before the battle was the only peace in war. After the battle came the screaming and the crying. It was after the fighting that the widows began to wail, a sound that Joffrey—the untested, weak-armed coward that his eldest child had been—had memorialized in the name of the sword that Jaime now carried.

The Tyrell armies were not prepared to face the bulk of the better organized, better equipped, and battle-hardened Lannister forces. The keep had fallen quickly and soundly; when the tide of battle firmly turned into the Lannisters' favor, men began to lay down their arms. There were casualties, as with any battle, but nearly all had been Tyrell bannermen and the supplies that King's Landing so desperately needed were safe.

Despite the army's victory, this battle was not yet won. Jaime still walked the hallways with his hand on his sword, his armor clinking as his footsteps echoed in the near-silence.

"Ser Jaime." Another quiet fucking murmur… If people didn't start raising their voices when speaking to him—even if only to drown out the distant crying—Jaime was going to snap.

He didn't snap. He stepped around the foot soldier and into the room that the man guarded. The door closed behind him, and the silence that resounded in the room after the gentle _click_ of the latch was immensely gratifying.

"It's done?"

Jaime didn't like much about Olenna, but she used her words with purpose. Even when everything had still seemed fine and golden, she hadn't had the time to waste on political niceties. Now, with the conqueror of her home facing against her, Tyrell blood still on his blade, she had less time than ever.

"It is."

"And now the rains weep o'er our halls…" Jaime hated that fucking song. "Did we fight well?"

 _No_. "As well as can be expected."

"It was never our forte. Golden roses indeed…" Olenna nodded, a dry smile twisting her face. Her sharp eyes watched as Jaime walked to the wine resting near the window. He poured two glasses before joining her at the table. "We had been sure Tommen hadn't a clue. What gave us away?"

"Our original orders were to protect Highgarden," Jaime confessed. "The new master of whispers found something after we'd left."

"A shame. I was very much looking forward to seeing Cersei's face when everything she cared for fell to ashes… We've all done unspeakable things to protect our families or watched them being done. I never lost a night's sleep over what I've done. They were necessary. And whatever I imagined necessary for the safety of House Tyrell I did. But your sister… She has done things I wasn't capable of imagining. That was my prize mistake: a failure of imagination. She's a monster, you do know that?"

"To you, sure." Jaime's instinct—defend the family—overruled the truth immediately, though the truth poured over him like ice water; to the Seven Kingdoms, to Tommen, and maybe to Jaime too, Cersei was a monster. "Whatever Cersei's done, whatever you think she's done, she didn't order us here."

"You really do believe that, don't you? Oh well… Mores the pity. I hope I'm wrong, oddly enough. I do hope it was Tommen that sent you here. Margaery was the spine in that marriage, and we both know it… Without her, he'll be eaten alive. And when that happens, Cersei will be the end of you."

"Possibly. Not much to be gained from discussing it with you though, is there?"

"Who better to discuss it with? What better guarantee could you have that the things you say will never leave this room? But perhaps you're right. Maybe Tommen will be able to yoke her when your father couldn't, when you couldn't. Maybe your child can do what none of you brave Lannister men have had the nerve to do."

"I think we're done here." Jaime couldn't hear more, couldn't listen to the old woman's rambling. If Tommen sent him here, his son had ordered the death of his grandmother by law. Tommen would have ordered the complete extinction of his late wife's family. The reverse—that Cersei somehow still had the influence to have changed the marching orders—was even worse. Even if Cersei was right and Olenna had been a traitor, disobeying the king and using the royal signet for personal gain were acts of treason. Nothing would be able to protect her then.

"How will it happen?" Was that a trace of fear in the Queen of Thorns' voice? As Jaime looked at her, he could see every year etched into the wrinkles of her skin. Every fear played out behind those eyes. He very deliberately reached onto his belt for the vial he'd acquired from the apothecary travelling with the Lannister forces. He poured the contents of the vial into one of the glasses of wine he'd poured and slid it towards Olenna. "Will there be pain?

"No." A simple enough promise. That was as good as Jaime could do. He wanted no more crying, only silence. Life was painful enough; if he could avoid pain for anyone, enemies included, he'd take the opportunity. "I made sure of that."

"Good." She reached out, taking the glass as if it were a lifeline instead of a death sentence, and downed the goblet's contents in one shot. "I'd hate to die like your son. Clawing at my neck, foam and bile spilling from my mouth, eyes blood red, skin purple. It must have been horrible for you as a Kingsguard, as a father. It was horrible enough for me. A shocking scene. Not at all what I had intended. You see, I'd never seen the poison work before… Tell Cersei. I want her to know it was me."

The world stilled. The silence in the room that Jaime had once celebrated was as smothering as the fires that had consumed the Sept of Baelor.

Jaime got to his feet so abruptly the table shook. Olenna's face remained a satisfied mask as Jaime stalked away. He was nearly at the door when her voice broke the quiet.

"Oh, do a dead woman a favor. Tell Sansa to kill Baelish quickly. He was willing to help me kill a southern king in his rabid pursuit of her. I'm sure he'd be willing to kill her northern king too."

His blood ice, Jaime's hand tightened on his sword and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

"Your attachment to this girl is getting less endearing each day I'm subjected to it," Daenerys warned. Tyrion, trying very hard not to read into that too much, pushed on.

"Sansa is not an enemy to you."

"So you say."

"So say her actions. She came here to speak to you regardless of the risks, something she did not consider when Tommen summoned her. She was a friend to House Tyrell and was largely responsible in Theon's escape from the Boltons. Many of your allies were bound to her in some capacity—"

"Allies which are now _dead_."

"Which is why I was speaking to her, a _potential ally_." Tyrion paused long enough to catch his breath. "She wants dragonglass."

"Dragonglass?"

"Yes. Volcanic glass, obsidian. The North has a man in the Citadel who says you have a tremendous amount of it here. According to him, it can be turned into weapons that kill White Walkers and their foot soldiers, or stop them, destroy them. I'm unsure of the nomenclature."

"And what do you think of this Army of the Dead and White Walkers and Night Kings?"

"I'd very much like to believe that Jon Snow is wrong, but a wise man once said that you should never believe a thing simply because you want to believe it."

"Which wise man said this?" Daenerys asked skeptically. Tyrion fought very hard with himself to not redden and was glad that the low light cast by the fire didn't illuminate his face very well.

"I don't remember."

"Are you trying to present your own statements as ancient wisdom?"

"I would never do that… to you. The reason I believe Jon Snow is because his own sister is here. All of their advisors would have told her not to come. I would have told her not to come, yet she's here anyway. You don't have to believe her. Let her mine the dragonglass. If she's wrong, it's worthless. You didn't even know it was here. It's nothing to you. Give them something by giving them nothing. Take a step toward a more productive relationship with a possible ally. Keep her occupied while we focus on the task at hand."

Daenerys was quiet as she stared at the table spread out before her. Her hands traced the table's edges and curves, slowly becoming more and more familiar with her country's outline.

"I must question, Tyrion, whether you are thinking as my hand or as her husband."

"Our marriage was a sham, you know that."

"But your feelings for her aren't. I can understand why you feel so strongly for her; she's beautiful, she's from a great house—"

"Please—Please don't. Her superior circumstances were made very clear to me when we were married. I don't need them to be listed out again."

"If she does not bend the knee, she will die. I will not accept dissent in this."

"I know."

"Then ensure that she knows as well… Tell her she may mine the dragonglass. But mind your heart, Tyrion. Remember which queen you serve."

* * *

"Some of your demands are easily met, others… are less so."

Negotiations with Brienne of Tarth were not going as well as he had hoped they would. True to Jaime's word, she was fiercely loyal to the Starks and incredibly stubborn. They had agreed on several smaller points of discussion—the crown recognizing the North's own legitimization of sorts of Jon Snow and, to a lesser extent, people like Larence Snow was no trouble to Tommen. Legitimizing bastards like Larence Snow—now Larence Hornwood—allowed for easier transition of power when a house was functionally all but extinct. Other matters, such as Brienne's insistence and inability to compromise on the kingdoms' support in this 'true northern war,' were harder for Tommen's advisors to get around.

"The crown cannot bend endlessly for the North," Randyll argued.

Tommen was exhausted of contending and hearing this same argument. If Brienne was willing to give an inch, he was sure that this discussion would begin yielding results, but neither side was willing to budge. And so Randyll continued.

"The North says its unprepared for whatever faces them beyond the Wall. The crown cannot afford to send men-at-arms to defend it without assurances of loyalty. You say that you don't want the North to bleed for southern wars, but you're asking his grace to send men of other kingdoms to bleed for you."

"If the North doesn't get assistance, we'll all be bleeding," Brienne grumbled under her breath.

"Lady Brienne," Tommen began anew, voice tired and eyes aching from staring at lists and documents. "Unless I can show my advisors verifiable proof that your northern threat exists, I cannot in good conscience send any men north."

"The crown supported the Night's Watch with no proof that they were needed for centuries."

"The proof was the threat of the wildings, all of whom now reside in the Gift of the North," Thena murmured to Randyll, who nodded. "Even then, it was Northern lords that were raided and the crown who provided defense."

"But the crown didn't provide the bulk of the defense. The north did. At most, you used the wall to empty out your dungeons when it was convenient," Brienne argued.

"The point remains. The crown cannot supply men and supplies without reasonable cause. The crown is already at war with Daenerys Targaryen. Euron Greyjoy and his parade through King's Landing made that clear to everyone in the city. We don't have a body or a sword to spare," Randyll finished.

Tommen sat as the conversation moved in circles around him. Eventually, he lowered his hands to the table, pushing away from the table ever so slightly.

"Lady Brienne. I am willing to authorize men from your company to visit our dungeons. In the tradition of the kingdoms, any man who wishes a pardon for their crimes can join the Night's Watch. I will provide a small guard of Lannister men-at-arms to accompany any volunteers as far as Moat Cailin, at which point it will be up to the North houses to deliver them to the Wall. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Your grace—"

"The City Watch has been very active in ending crime in my city. Our dungeons are overfull, and we won't have the food to sustain prisoners if we are sieged. Rather than execute petty thieves, allow them to aid the North," Tommen decided. "Is that agreeable to you, Lady Brienne?"

"Yes, your grace. I'll tell the others immediately." Brienne got to her feet, bowing. She was nearly at the door when she paused, looking back. "And if we were able to find proof… what would your answer be then?"

* * *

Jaime needed to meet with the king immediately. Bronn, for the complete pain in the ass that he was, was a valuable enough commander that Jaime could leave him to oversee the transportation of gold and goods recovered from Highgarden. It had taken just over a week for the Lannister men-at-arms to get from King's Landing to Highgarden. Unencumbered by the weight of an army, Jaime spurred his horse faster and faster, getting a fresh horse at any stop he could as each beast began to falter. Keeping at that breakneck pace, he arrived in King's Landing days after the Sack of Highgarden and was breathlessly in front of Tommen within mere days of travel.

"Uncle! I didn't expect you for weeks." Tommen's voice was tinged with confusion as he greeted his uncle. The suspicion that Olenna had planted in Jaime's heart twisted like a knife. Wordless, he held out the dirtied message that had perhaps sealed all of their fates.

Tommen accepted it with a concerned frown. He turned the letter over in his hands, freezing as he spied the broken seal marking the orders. His right hand tightened over the corner of the paper, his signet ring flickering in the low light.

"The orders are carried out?"

"Yes."

Jaime watched as a change began, slowly at first then gaining alarming speed, as Tommen shifted from the young boy glad to see his uncle returned from the countryside to a betrayed king. Jaime had seen more than one betrayed king, had seen that sort of controlled rage before, but he never saw a fury like he did in Tommen. Tommen had been such a sweet-tempered child; now, he was a man with hard-set morals and weights on his mind that no boy his age should bear.

"Ser Jaime. Walk with me. I must pay Qyburn a visit."

* * *

Posted 22:11, 6.2.18

Updated 17:02, 3.12.19


	10. Chapter 10

The caves beneath Dragonstone were beautiful. Sansa was sad that Jon wouldn't be able to see them, but the dragonglass was needed for arrowheads and blades far more than it was needed for history. Still… Sansa could share it with someone other than Davos.

"These are incredible." Tyrion's voice was reverent as his eyes roamed across the cave walls, taking in the ancient drawings.

"Jon described similar drawings north of the Wall, at the Fist of the First Men," Sansa murmured. "The Children of the Forest made these."

"Standing here, before there were Lannisters or Starks or Targaryens…"

"But not before there were men," Sansa said, directing Tyrion's gaze to a mural further down, where the First Men and the Children stood together. "Your queen should see this. If they could get along to fight against one common enemy… We might just stand a chance."

"History and cave murals may be lost on the Mother of Dragons," Tyrion found himself saying. He glanced over to see Sansa smiling at him in the low light in a mischievous way that took his breath away.

"But are they wasted on you?"

"You're a dangerous opponent, Lady Stark," he chided lightly. Sansa chuckled under her breath.

"I must be if I'm to compete on your level, Lord Tyrion." Her expression sobered when she returned her gaze to the mural. The Night King stared out at them balefully, preserved in white and blue pigment against the black of the dragonglass. "I didn't quite believe Jon when I got to Castle Black… I think part of me wasn't convinced till I saw these… I thought you should see these. Maybe you can convince Daenerys that I'm not her enemy, not really."

"She's a good queen. She cares immensely," Tyrion found himself saying too quickly. Sansa's smile became so sad, though, that he found his voice drifting off. A wry smile appeared on his face as a new thought entered his mind. "Perhaps it's for the best that you're both so stubborn. If you weren't, you'd be great friends and Westeros would be a ruin in days."

The mood lightened suddenly, the two were laughing as they began walking from the cave and back onto the beach. Once out in the sea air, though, the happy mood disappeared at the sight of Varys, Missandei, and Daenerys herself striding down to meet them.

"What is it?" Tyrion asked first, seeing the carefully restrained anger in Daenerys's posture.

"We took Casterly Rock." Her voice was dangerously even.

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Tyrion asked carefully. Varys exhaled heavily before bringing the Hand up to speed on recent events. All the while, Daenerys stood, stewing and glaring into the distance.

"I suppose we know why Jaime Lannister was sent from King's Landing now." Daenerys Targaryen, for all her fire and blood, spoke with ice lacing each syllable of her speech now. Tyrion cringed, fully aware that all of her ire and rage was now directed at him.

"Olenna—" Sansa's voice broke and she staggered back. Ser Davos, appearing from the mouth of the cave far too late, placed a supportive arm at her back.

"You'll want to discuss this amongst yourselves—" Davos started, already beginning to lead Sansa from the group.

"You will stay," Daenerys ordered abruptly, eyes locked on Tyrion. "All my allies are gone. They've been taken from me while I sit on this island on _your_ suggestion."

"We still have the largest army—"

"Who won't be able to eat because Cersei has the Reach."

"Call Grey Worm and the Unsullied back. We still have enough ships to carry the Dothraki to the mainland. Commit to the blockade of King's Landing. We have a plan. It's still the right plan."

"The right plan?" Daenerys took a step away, only to whirl back to face Tyrion. "Your _right plan_ has lost us Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the Reach."

"If I've underestimated our enemies—"

"Your family, you mean. Enough of this. I have three large dragons. I'm going to fly them to the Red Keep."

"We've discussed this—"

"My enemies are the in the Red Keep. What kind of a queen am I if I'm not willing to risk my life to fight them?"

"A smart one!" Tyrion insisted.

"What do you think I should do?" Daenerys asked suddenly, looking to Sansa, who had begun to watch the argument with poorly-hidden interest. A frown twisted the Wardeness of the North's mouth.

"I—"

"I'm fighting a war. I'm losing. What would you suggest?" she pressed. Sansa glanced at Davos and Tyrion before returning her gaze to the Targaryen queen.

"I lived in the Red Keep. If you take your dragons there, you will be killing more the Cersei. Brienne reported that the City Watch have increased in size and has improved their training, but they won't be able to stop the riots that will take place if your first appearance in the city destroys a third of it… Your grace, I came here because I hoped you were different. I sent an agent to King's Landing because I knew I couldn't trust Tommen, not with Cersei still roaming free. I came here myself because Tyrion told me that you were different. If you burn the Red Keep to kill your enemies, you're not different."

Scowling at the reply—though Sansa wasn't sure what the Dragon Queen had been looking for when she pressed for an opinion—Daenerys called for her advisors and strode away from the caves, leaving Davos and Sansa alone on the sand.

Before Daenerys could get to Drogon and fly off—advisors be damned—a raven came for Sansa.

Cersei had stirred more than one sleeping opponent.

* * *

"When you contacted me, you told me that I would be king!"

"And you will be, once Tommen is safely convinced that the crown is not for him," Cersei assured Euron once he finished slamming the door behind him like a petulant child. "You did your part in destroying the Greyjoy fleet, and you enabled me to get justice for Myrcella. I repay my debts, but only if you're patient. We're not finished here yet."

"Yeah? Because I heard that your precious boy wants you in irons for your little stunt with Highgarden. You might be pretty, but no one's pretty enough to die for, love."

"You're overthinking, Greyjoy; and trust me that that is not something I ever though I would say… Tommen believes that he has what it takes to beat that Targaryen bitch back, but he doesn't. He thinks he's manipulated the timing so perfectly—take the gold that our armies took from the Tyrells and give it to the Iron Bank just in time to pay off our debts and regain their favor."

"I'm not seeing a scenario that doesn't end with your pretty little head on a spike."

"The Iron Bank is impervious to attack, but the gold has to get there. Tycho is staying to discuss the crown's future endeavors with Tylan, but he's already sent word that the gold is being shipped. If something were to happen to that ship…"

"The gold is ours," Euron realized with a slow smile. Cersei narrowed her eyes, wondering exactly why she had decided to ally herself to such an imbecile.

"No. The gold buys armies. I've heard rather nice things about the Golden Company." When Euron didn't seem to respond, she continued. "You take the gold, buy the army, and we take the kingdoms before the Targaryen's savages destroy it. With the Golden Company and your armada, she won't stand a chance."

Euron allowed Cersei to pass him a glass of wine, not noticing the scowl of displeasure that flickered onto her face when he glanced away. Once the Golden Company was here, she wouldn't need Euron or his ships. She'd had rather enough weddings, if she was honest with herself.

She would keep Euron's prisoner alive as insurance—if Euron did anything, stepped a toe out of line, he would lose the precious little plaything she'd snuck away into the Black Cells. Yara would be safe, sound, and miserable in the Black Cells for the rest of her days, out of the reach of Tommen's near-sighted justice, so long as Euron cooperated. If he didn't… it's not as if she was valuable to Cersei as a living prisoner.

* * *

Quiet steps led Tommen to a set of doors he'd been avoiding as best he could since the destruction of the sept. Still, time from one tragedy had done nothing to dull the pain—the _anger_ —he felt whenever he thought of his mother, especially not when this latest betrayal cut deeply.

Ser Gregor—the same Ser Gregor that had prevented him from joining his wife so many months ago—stood guard outside his mother's chambers and Tommen's heart beat unsteadily as he looked up to see the bluish skin visible through the monster's helm.

"Ser Gregor, you may stand down. Return to your quarters, eat, and rest. You have guarded my mother faithfully and I thank you. Ser Balon and Ser Jaime will defend Mother and myself while I speak to her. Someone will fetch you when we've finished."

Ser Gregor did not move his body, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his king. Tommen stood as tall as he could, painfully aware that his height was woefully inadequate to intimidate the Mountain that Rides. After a long moment, Ser Gregor's gaze shifted to Balon and then Jaime before he eventually lumbered away. Someone would be sent to his quarters, that was certain. Qyburn's concoction had been declared as complete, and it was easy enough for the man to lace the monster's food and drink with a strong dose, but someone would be sent to check in on the Mountain's condition once Cersei was being closely guarded.

Only when the Mountain was long out of sight did Tommen turn his attention to his mother's door. Steeling himself, he raised a hand to knock on the door.

"Enter," his mother's voice called from within. The doors were opened, and Tommen was in his mother's embrace before he had fully entered the room. Her hands were claws as she entrapped him against her. "Oh, Tommen, my sweet boy. I've just heard the news. We first lose Margaery to that awful tragedy, and now her grandmother as well? And to such a cause. No, it's only family we can rely on now. Everyone, _everyone else_ , is an enemy."

All the thoughts of Margaery that had plagued Tommen's mind—the lilt of her voice, the softness of her hands, the terror she must have felt in her last minutes in this world—returned to Tommen in full force when her name dripped from Cersei's lips. For the briefest of moments, Tommen felt like crying again. How had he been blind enough to not see the scorn his mother had felt towards his wife? The scorn that his mother still bore, despite Margaery being nothing more than memory and ash, was so palpable that it suffocated Tommen just as much as Cersei's tightening grip. When Tommen did not return his mother's embrace, the arms holding him firmly turned to stone and fell away. Cersei stepped back to look at her son better and she had the gall to frown.

"What's this?" One inquisitive hand reached out to Tommen's head where his new crown rested. "What happened to—"

Gold was too soft a metal, Tommen had decided on the day of the Sept's destruction. His new crown was a thin band of iron, ornamented only with a seven-pointed star that rested in the middle of his forehead. As Cersei looked closer, she noticed with a disgruntled frown that the circle surrounding the star itself had been styled to resemble a thorny vine. Tommen's queen may be gone, but she would never be forgotten.

"The seven-pointed star? The faith of the Seven has fallen apart, Tommen. Don't be foolish."

"The faith will not die while there are those that believe in what it stands for," Tommen insisted quietly. There was belief in the gods before he counted the High Sparrow as an ally, and there was belief in the gods even though the Sparrows had met their gods, regardless of his own shaken faith. Maybe one day the Crone would tell him how the world led him to this moment, but the Father beckoned first.

Tommen nodded to Jaime, trying to ignore his uncle's strained expression as the man quietly left the room. Footsteps rang out in the hallway shortly and a stream of guards entered the Dowager Queen's quarters.

"What—Tommen, what is this?"

"Cersei of Houses Lannister and Baratheon, you are hereby charged with regicide, conspiracy, unlawful abuse of power, and treason. You, as in the tradition of the Seven Kingdoms, will be—" Cersei screamed, drowning out Tommen's words as the group of guards surrounded and corralled Cersei towards the door. She continued screaming and hissing, spewing out threats to the guards and pleas for Tommen in the same breath. "May the Father be just."

The halls echoed with her enraged shouts long after she had disappeared from sight and Tommen found himself walking towards Cersei's desk. It was littered with papers, some blank and others riddled with script. Tommen brushed the documents aside, silently reminding himself to have someone he could trust tear this room apart, and a metallic _clink_ sounded as something fell to the floor. Tommen knelt where his mother had once sat, his hand searching on the ground before raising up a pewter signet ring.

Tommen was a king. It was his job to protect people. Olenna, whether she was a traitor to the crown or not, did not deserve her home to be destroyed before her eyes. She had deserved justice. While that justice may have ended with her death regardless, those matters were not for Cersei to control. When Tommen had stepped away from a window ledge so many months ago, he had sworn that he would find or make justice in this world before he rejoined his beloved. Still, as he stared at the ring that had signed his mother's death warrant with its mere existence, his stomach turned.

"You're doing the right thing."

Jaime. Of course it was Jaime. Who else would dare tell the king what to do, how to feel?

No. Jaime was right, and Tommen was certainly not alone. He knew as well as any that his uncle cared deeply for his mother. This judgement would have more than one pained witness.

"I don't know how many people will be willing to testify, but none of us can be above the law. We're not gods, none of us." The words hung in the air like a thick miasma, replacing the air of all oxygen until Tommen had to escape his mother's suite in order to breathe properly. Jaime strayed behind, fingers trailing dazedly on tabletops and eyes roaming the rooms he'd visited so many times. Had he truly counseled his son to crucify his own mother? How long would it take for this trial to consume him next?

Jaime tried to turn his mind away to no avail. If Cersei so much as hinted at their relationship during this trial, he'd be dragged into the mire. If that were to happen, Tommen would have his back to a corner with no allies in the city. Still, if he were brought before the septons, he wouldn't lie. He had too many crimes to answer for to bear adding more to his list. All he could hope for was the time to make sure Tommen would be secure before the Stranger came to take him.

* * *

In a quiet, forgotten room of the Red Keep, Tommen reflected on how everything had come to be, and how the coming moments would define the years, maybe decades, to follow.

Cersei's trial date was set for one month after the Sack of Highgarden. Witnesses were being gathered on both sides of the court. Randyll Tarly had, in memory of his childhood friend, decidedly begun gathering up a prosecution that would surely put Cersei's public incrimination of Tyrion to shame. Thena Lynderly, who revealed herself as a friend of Cersei, was working towards Cersei's defense. Tommen would oversee the trial—his duties as king and his regrettable but unavoidable lack of a Hand gave him no other options—but the thought of betraying Cersei still tore at him.

Was he a monster for seeking to prosecute his mother? Was he a fair king, and an awful son? Would his people understand, or would they balk at a king willing to allow his mother to face such tribulations? Worse still, would his people rejoice at Cersei's misfortunes? Is his action truly the work of a man seeking justice, or were his actions dictated by his personal loss?

"The trial begins in twenty-four days." He found himself repeating the timeline like a mantra, even when there was no one to hear. Reminding himself of the finality of Cersei's trial—of _his mother's_ _trial_ —seemed to help him cope with the myriad stresses still gathered on his shoulders.

The one good thing that seemed to come of this entire mess was that Qyburn had seemed to succeed. When someone was sent to the Mountain's quarters to check in on his condition, the monstrous man had been found nearly comatose. He had been relocated and safely chained onto Qyburn's table once more, now for observation. Once he was truly dead, Tommen would announce his death to the court and send an emissary to Dorne—to whoever remained alive in Dorne—that the Mountain was finally killed by Oberyn Martell for his brutality and crimes against Elia Martell and her innocent children. After all, with the Mountain's confession, Tyrion hadn't been the only one on trial in the eyes of the gods that day.

Still, despite his one brief reprieve, things did not add up satisfactorily. And, unfortunately for Tommen's increasingly fragile sanity, the direction that the evidence he'd found pointed in was not favorable.

By all evidence, the Mountain had never deserved his title as a knight, just as he didn't deserve a place on the Kingsguard. In order to remove him from the records, Tommen had decided to formally attaint Gregor Clegane, stripping him of all lands, titles, and honors. The issue when he decided to pursue that, an issue that Tylan had found, was that Grandmaester Pycelle already had a record of an attainting of Gregor Clegane, issued by Eddard Stark.

Eddard Stark was a man that Tommen had extremely mixed feelings about. His father had raised him on tales of Ned Stark's honor and valor in battle. Uncle Stannis—who hadn't been nearly as good at telling stories and also shared an ambiguous place in Tommen's heart, given his attempt at the throne after Robert's death—had told Tommen of how Ned had bravely broken the siege of Storm's End while Robert was fighting Rhaegar. Despite the heroic stories, Ned Stark had been the man to accuse Tommen and his siblings as being bastards and worse, the result of incest.

Tommen was well aware that houses in history had often turned to incest to keep bloodlines pure and power undiluted, but the houses of Westeros had learned a lesson with the Targaryen madness. _When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin_ was a phrase Tommen heard more than once about the Targaryen madness, and stories of the Mad King were commonplace in his old home. With so much to support that clearly Ned Stark's claims were insidious lies, why was there still a glimmer of doubt in Tommen's heart?

"You are overworking yourself."

"Is that the sort of thing you say to a king?"

"That's the sort of thing I say to a nephew who hasn't slept in two days," Jaime corrected as he approached Tommen's once-secret hiding place. "I know you feel the pressure of everything happening at once, but you must take care of yourself. I'm saying this as—as someone who has seen stress do terrible things to a mind."

The glimmer of doubt in Tommen's mind twisted in on itself, shining in the darkness of his mind. It reflected gold, like Jaime's armor in the sun.

"Mother will be on trial soon. Randyll is very insistent on his prosecution."

"He was devoted to Olenna."

"He will not rest until he has the evidence that he requires to force my hand. Nothing Thena says will be able to combat what's already been found. The ring, Qyburn's confessions regarding Mother's side-projects, her usage of his little birds… She's going to die, and by the King's justice." The words were bitter, like the ash that had started this entire mess. Jaime remained silent long enough that Tommen's fears reasserted themselves, and he continued, eyes turned towards the window. "You will be called to trial."

"Is that advanced warning, or a distant possibility?" Jaime asked, his voice light and teasing but a tenseness around his eyes that made his deepening wrinkles more visible.

"Lord Tarly is a bloodhound. He won't have forgotten the rumors regarding you and Mother. If he finds a single thread, he will pull and pull until the tapestry is unraveled and everyone is left bare."

"He will not make any ridiculous accusation against you. He was loyal to Olenna, yes, but you are his king. Without Olenna, the only vows remaining bind his loyalty and service to you."

"I'm not worried about me." Tommen turned suddenly, facing his uncle directly. "Are the rumors, _any_ of them, true?"

Jaime's face shifted in his reaction for a long second, long enough for Tommen to read his uncle like an open book before he could retrain his features. A strange weight settled in Tommen's gut, but something— _something_ —seemed to ease. He laughed, a dry, mirthless thing that sounded pained even to his ears. He winced when Jaime cringed at the sound.

"I suppose… I suppose I already suspected." Silence rang out after Tommen's quiet admission. Neither Lannister—and they truly were both Lannisters, Tommen mused—could look directly at the other.

"Do you hate me?"

Tommen's emerald eyes snapped up at his uncle's— _his father's_ —voice. Strong, brave Jaime was gone, leaving a shadow of man that seemed to be suffocating in his own skin. In this moment, there was weakness that Tommen had never seen, never suspected of existing under that gold and shining exterior.

"Hate you?" There was an odd crack in Tommen's voice as he echoed his father's words. Tommen wasn't sure of anything that he was feeling. He was relieved that his uncle was finally able to be truthful. Incredulous that he hadn't stumbled upon the truth years ago. Angry that such a secret was hidden from him. Afraid that the truth would come out, and that all that he'd worked for would crumble. Worried that this truth would destroy what little remained of his family. Happy to know that his father hadn't been gone but had been at his side this entire time. Apprehensive for the future and the unanswerable questions it offered. But above all of that noise and confusion: "I could never hate you."

Unable to process much of anything, Tommen found himself reaching out. Jaime grabbed ahold of him, of his son, as if he were a man close to drowning and the two stayed in the quiet, forgotten room, unwilling to face the world outside but unable to face the world within.

In that quiet, forgotten room, Jaime saw Myrcella—so beautiful, so young, so accepting as she had had this same conversation with him. He saw her dying in his arms as he was powerless to heal her, unable to exact revenge or justice or whatever it is he sought in those moments. Now, with his son crying and smiling and finally taking a short break from carrying the weight of the entire continent on his thin shoulders, Jaime found himself terrified again.

He had nearly convinced himself that he was prepared for this trial. He had almost believed that he was ready to face whatever punishment he deserved for his sins. In this room, he wondered if he was as much a monster as Cersei—as much a disaster as the woman that he had grown up with, fallen in love with, and had three beautiful children with—because he knew, in this moment, that he too would destroy the world if it meant that this one person, one out of the millions in the world, would be safe from it all.

* * *

Posted 18:54, 6.10.18

Updated 17:06, 3.12.19


	11. Chapter 11

In her limited freedoms on the island, Sansa found herself outside more often than not. Daenerys remained inside with her advisors, discussing policy and strategy in the room with the painted table as they awaited news from King's Landing, but Sansa grew restless. Her feet carried her to the cliffs, watching the three dragons fly through the air. Remembering what Daenerys had referred to them as—her children—Sansa imagined that they were playing as they soared high above Dragonstone, roaring and nipping at each other.

The three siblings didn't get along perfectly. The biggest one was very clearly in charge, but the other two seemed to squabble between themselves for second-best. Sansa watched with a watery smile as the two dipped towards their larger sibling, one biting and the other screaming as the three drew close together before coming apart again, just missing each other. It was a dance, Sansa realized, but one that she'd never quite understand.

Sansa was so absorbed watching the dragons fly that she nearly didn't recognize the approach of their mother. When she did notice Daenerys's closeness, her eyes were drawn to the Dragon Queen's face. Whereas in the throne room the Targaryen had been cool and ruthless, her eyes shown with warm pride as she watched her children dance above them.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Daenerys asked, voice soft. Beautiful wasn't the word Sansa immediately thought of when she looked upon the dragons, but she remembered Lady. A direwolf—an otherwise vicious and wild creature—that had been so gentle and patient with her… If Sansa had seen Lady's softness when so many others wouldn't, perhaps the dragons flying above her now held something only Daenerys had seen.

"They are," Sansa found herself murmuring.

"No matter how big they get, how terrifying they are to others, they're my children," Daenerys said, more to herself than to Sansa.

"Have you ever seen a direwolf?" she found herself saying. When Daenerys looked back, a questioning light in her eyes, Sansa smiled. "I suppose you wouldn't have… They were supposed to be extinct on our side of the wall… Massive wolves, larger than horses and able to rip a man to shreds in seconds. My house has always been associated with direwolves, just as the Targaryens and their dragons… When I was a girl, my father and my brothers found a direwolf that had died, leaving six pups behind. Each of my siblings and I were given one, and my father told us that they were our responsibility. We were to train them, care for them, discipline them… If they died, we were to bury them ourselves. I named mine Lady… She was the sweetest creature I'd ever met. When Father was named as Robert's Hand, Lady came with me on the Kingsroad."

"A direwolf in King's Landing?" Daenerys asked incredulously. Sansa smiled sadly.

"I know… In hindsight, she would have been positively miserable in the Red Keep. In the end, it didn't matter. Arya's wolf attacked Joffrey and then ran off. Cersei ordered for Lady to be killed in Nymeria's place."

"I'm sorry."

"She would have hated the city. Wolves were meant for the cold, meant for the North." As Sansa's eyes returned to the dragons, Daenerys' stayed locked on the wardeness.

"Yes… I suppose they are."

* * *

"A crippled boy claims to have seen dead men on the march beyond the Wall thanks to the magical help of a raven with three eyes…" Sam stopped working as the maesters gathered at the table behind him laughed.

"It is a bit much," Marwyn agreed with a smile. The smile was a bit forced, though, and a flicker of hope spread through Sam. "Still we ought to—"

"Brandon Stark," Sam interrupted. "The crippled boy. Was it Brandon Stark?"

"Do you know him?" Marwyn asked intently.

"I let him through the Wall years ago. He went beyond." When the gathered maesters seemed as a whole unimpressed, Sam frowned. "Somehow a crippled boy survived for years beyond the Wall when no one else could? Not the Night's Watch, not the wildlings, no one. Perhaps we ought to listen to what he has to say."

"Perhaps you need more scribing work to discipline your mind."

"I sense a more detailed proposal may be forthcoming."

"Yes, well…" Sam cleared his throat and shifted his stance so that he stood facing the entire table. Gods, that was a lot of eyes on him… "Everyone in Westeros trusts and respects the Order of Maesters. If you tell people the threat is real, they'll believe it. If you advise all the lords to send their men north to hold the wall, they'll do it. And if you tell every maester in the Citadel to search every word of every faded scroll about the Long Night, they may find something that lets us defeat the army of the dead for good."

A moment of silence won out in the room after Sam's more detailed proposal came to an end, only broken when Marwyn hummed thoughtfully.

"It could be done. And this news could be authentic. It's possible. It's also possible this message is part of a ploy by the dragon queen to lure southern armies away from the lands they are currently defending to open those lands to easy conquest."

"That does seem far more likely than magic birds talking to cripples," another maester chimed in. Sam resisted the urge to glare at the man who was so utterly irrelevant that his name escaped Sam's very good memory.

"Archmaester, please. It's real. I've seen it."

"We will write to Maester Wolkan at Winterfell for clarification. I promise you we will get to the truth of it one way or another," Marwyn said decidedly. When Sam opened his mouth to argue, Marwyn shot him a stern look. "That will be all, Tarly."

Defeated, Sam gathered up his work and made to leave. The laughter of the maesters—laughter of men who should know _better_ —followed him on his way out.

* * *

"Why did you leave your homeland?" Sansa found herself asking, trying to stave off boredom as Daenerys spoke with Tyrion and Varys. It seemed that Missandei, with no experience with Westeros, was slightly less valuable in determining new strategy and so had begun to follow Sansa and Davos around the dreary keep.

"I was stolen away by slavers," the woman replied earnestly. Sansa immediately found herself apologizing, but Davos had a more interesting reply.

"If I may, how did a slave girl come to advise Daenerys Targaryen?"

"She bought me from my master and set me free."

"That was good of her. Of course, you're serving her now, aren't you?"

"I serve my queen because I want to serve my queen. Because I believe in her."

"And if you wanted to sail home tomorrow—"

"Then she would give me a ship and wish me good fortune."

"You really believe that?"

"I know it. All of us who came with her from Essos, we believe in her. She's not our queen because she's the daughter of some king we never knew. She's the queen we chose."

"D'you think Jon'll forgive me if I switch sides?" Davos asked Sansa quietly. He never got a response, though, because Sansa, who had been listening to the quick conversation with an amused smile, had her eyes on the sea.

For so many months, she'd stared onto the Blackwater and tried to envision what sort of people were aboard those distant ships, where they had come from and where they were going. For once, she had at least one answer to those questions.

"That's a Greyjoy ship, isn't it?"

There was some chaos as Missandei sent word to Daenerys and the other advisors that a friendly Greyjoy ship had made it to safe harbor, but Sansa and Davos found themselves on the beach to greet whoever was coming ashore. As the landing party grew closer, Sansa's throat constricted, recognizing one of the men.

"That's—" And before Davos could stop her, Sansa was running into the waves to meet Theon. Once her brother, once an enemy… Sansa's relief at seeing him again after hearing the news of the Greyjoy's ambush served only to remind her that Theon was now a friend. "Theon!"

"Sansa?" Theon's voice shook with surprise as he suddenly found Sansa's arms wrapped around his middle in the surf. He pulled away, eyes searching her and a smile growing as he couldn't find any trace of the abuse she'd endured at Ramsay's hands. He pulled her closer again, forgetting the crowd that awaited them.

"I was worried. I heard that you were attacked. I thought you were dead," Sansa muttered. As Theon finally released her and the two came out of the surf, he grimaced.

"I should be… Euron has Yara, my sister," he added at Sansa's frown. "I came to ask the queen to help get her back."

"Actually… I may be able to help with that," Sansa said with a small smile. "I've been keeping the ravens _very_ busy."

* * *

Brienne wasn't sure if she'd ever get used to the increasingly odd requests made by Lady Sansa. If her messages weren't written in Sansa's hand, she'd question whether it was truly Sansa writing them. Still, as she obeyed and began to scour the Black Cells with little more than a torch in hand and a northern lord as witness—Ser Ewan of Deepwood Motte, bannerman of House Glover—for a prisoner that seemed resistant to being found.

"If she's really here, she should be left to rot… She held Deepwood during the War of Five Kings, threw Lady Sybelle and her children in chains. This is justice."

"By all accounts, she treated Lady Sybelle and her children well," Brienne muttered to herself. Raising her voice, she glanced back to Ewan. "If she rots away in here, House Glover gets no justice and Cersei claims another victim. Let's not give her the satisfaction."

Still, the Black Cells were aptly named. With few guards monitoring the corridors, the prisoners were kept mostly to themselves in the dark and the silence. Many of the cells that Brienne had checked were empty of people, but others still were devoid of life, though not wanting for bones or bodies. It was a horror show.

"Lord Stark was kept here, before he was executed," Ser Ewan murmured in awed disgust as Brienne slammed another cell door shut in frustration.

"We can add that to the grievances once we find her and get out."

Brienne was well aware of the ironies of this moment. She was sworn to serve Sansa, and now she was seeking out someone that had ripped Winterfell from the Starks once. More importantly, and more relevantly, she was seeking out someone that would strengthen her lady's alliances with the Dragon Queen. There was no guarantee that Sansa would be able to avoid bending the knee to Tommen or Daenerys for long, but she was playing the long game. Preserving the life of Yara Greyjoy, even without Tommen's direct knowledge or permission, would serve House Stark and the North well.

They were on the fourth row of cells when the door opened to reveal an extremely dirty young woman, abused and still bloody from some distant battle. Brienne handed Ser Ewan the torch, stepping in the cell and gently grabbing the unconscious woman's jaw, shifting her face so that the light fell on her dirtied features.

"That's her," Ser Ewan confirmed softly, shivering in the damp air.

"Are you sure?"

"It's a bit hard to recognize her without a sword in her hand and a snarl on her face, but aye. It's her," Ewan repeated drily. Brienne scowled at the man before returning her attention to Yara, pulling a waterskin from her waist. She uncorked the waterskin and, when shaking the girl didn't accomplish anything, poured water onto her face.

Yara sputtered as she awoke, arms flying wildly. Brienne, one hand on the girl's mouth and the other pinning her arms, stopped the girl from hurting herself and shushed her in a low voice.

"Easy. We're here to get you out. Can you walk?" Brienne asked. When Yara's frenzied eyes calmed and she nodded her assent, Brienne took her hand from Yara's mouth. "Theon still has a couple of friends, it would seem."

"Good to hear," Yara coughed out. Brienne passed her the half-full waterskin.

"Drink slow. We weren't sure what sort of state you'd be in, but we found you pretty quick, so we've got some time. Let's not need it, though."

Once Yara was sufficiently recovered and the now-trio was on the move, Brienne was glad that Breakspear Tower was so empty. It would be hard enough to hide Yara anywhere in the compound, but at least she'd be safe enough in the suite of rooms delegated to the North.

* * *

There seemed to be good news abound once Ser Jorah arrived at Dragonstone, miraculously cured of advanced greyscale. Tyrion was rather growing used to hearing that a raven scroll had come for Sansa. If she ever tired of being Wardeness of the North, she may give Varys a run for his position as Daenerys' Master of Whispers. She, after all, seemed to be the best informed of the lot of them.

"I've gotten word from King's Landing," she reported to the group gathered around the painted table. Their numbers were fewer than what they'd started with—the absence of Ellaria, the Sand Snakes, and Olenna was still keenly felt—but the table seemed better populated with Sansa, Davos, Theon, and Ser Jorah gathered 'round. "Brienne found Yara in the Black Cells. She's currently being sheltered in the North's rooms in Breakspear Tower."

"How is she?"

"She's okay. Banged up, but no one touched her since she was placed in the cells. Brienne will look for Ellaria and Tyrene at the next opportunity, but with Cersei locked away there is a chance no one will act on orders to harm them."

"There's also a chance that no one will act on orders to keep them fed," Daenerys mused. "Still, your agent in King's Landing has done what I could not do. Thank you… But you don't look happy. Is there more?"

"Bran—my brother—saw the Night King and his army marching towards Eastwatch by the Sea. Jon sent word that the current Night's Watch—mostly wildlings now—to concentrate their defenses there but if they make it past the Wall—"

"The Wall has kept them out for thousands of years," Varys began. "Presumably—"

"The Wall was built after the last Long Night. It has never been tested against the armies of the dead before. I need to go home. Winter is here, and the North will need me while Jon is fighting."

"You said you don't have enough men."

"We don't. Jon will fight with the men we have, and I'll try to keep us fed until we run out of men. Unless you'd be willing to join us."

"And give the country to a bastard? As soon as I march away he will march in."

"Perhaps not. You said that Tommen wanted proof of the army of the dead, that his advisors think it's nothing; that it's a story made up by wet nurses to frighten children. What if we prove them wrong?" Tyrion's voice began slightly unsure, as if he wasn't exactly sure what he was saying until it was said, but it grew stronger in resolve as he finished.

"I don't think anything the North can say will convince the small council to allow a southern king to go beyond the Wall in winter."

"So bring the dead to them," Tyrion suggested.

"I thought that was what we are trying to avoid," Daenerys stated dully. Sansa frowned, though, considering it.

"We don't need to bring him the whole army," Tyrion said quickly. "Only one soldier."

"Is that possible?" Daenerys asked, eyes turned to Sansa.

"The first wight Jon ever saw was brought into Castle Black. If it hadn't been for Ghost, he could've died… If one can survive in Castle Black in the fall, it might be able to survive to King's Landing in early winter… Getting one and transporting it would be next to impossible, though."

"Anything you bring back will be useless unless Tommen grants us an audience," Varys pointed out.

"I could write a letter?" Sansa suggested.

* * *

With Cersei's trial fast approaching, winter hitting harder each day, and a city of half a million people to feed and clothe in what was likely to be the longest winter in living memory, any distraction was welcome to King Tommen I.

"A letter for you, your grace." Wyn attended to much of Tommen's private correspondence, not that he had much. Grandmaester Tylan had decided early on that his mind was better spent on matters of mathematics and economics than petty letter writing and raven-tending. That suited Tommen just fine, though; he was growing tiresome of the man who insisted that the North's current call for independence was a mere powerplay intending to earn them lower tax rates than the rest of the kingdoms.

Seeing the direwolf seal on the scroll, Tommen opened the letter with interest. It had been long since he'd gotten a letter from Sansa Stark, even though he understood she exchanged frequent messages with her sworn sword.

 _Tommen,_

 _I am to understand that Brienne has been serving me faithfully, and likely causing you a great deal of trouble as you try to placate both the North and the small council. I apologize for your troubles, though I hope to soon be able to help resolve some of the issues I have caused._

 _You told Brienne that you are unable to provide the North with assistance until your advisors have seen proof of the white walker threat. That is a reasonable standing to have, and I'd like to accommodate them if possible. A ranging party will be sent far north, beyond the Wall, to capture a wight—a foot soldier—and return it safely to our side of the Wall. With your permission, I'd like to stage a parley in King's Landing, or near to it, that all parties in this may meet and discuss terms. If you accept, I'd extend this invitation to Daenerys Targaryen. While her goals may run counter to yours, neither of you will be able to peaceably rule over a graveyard._

 _Please pass your reply to Brienne when possible. Someone will be arriving in King's Landing shortly to meet with her regarding recent developments in the North that pertain to her._

 _Sansa Stark, Wardeness of the North_

Tommen scowled at the letter; Sansa's words were supposed to relieve his headache, not add to it. Still, he couldn't fault the paper for its words. If Sansa could provide proof of this threat—and wasn't that thought terrifying on its own—he would be a poor king to ignore her message. He'd need to send word to Brienne immediately, though perhaps he'd send his own reply as well.

* * *

Posted 13:13, 6.19.18

Updated 17:07, 3.12.19


	12. Chapter 12

"Your grace, a raven has arrived from King's Landing," Wolkan announced, holding out a scroll for Jon. Jon looked at it carefully—it was addressed to Sansa. Curious, Jon made to open it.

"Who's it from?"

Jon nearly jumped at the sudden inquiry. If Arya had walked like a cat before he'd gone off to the Wall, she glided over the ground like a ghost now.

"I'm going to get you a bell," he threatened half-heartedly. Arya smirked, falling in to the chair next to him as she took a very loud bite from the apple in her hand. "It's for Sansa, from… King Tommen Baratheon, First of His Name."

"Well, she always did like nice things," Arya commented lightly. "Perhaps our Lady Stark is in love with a southern king. She _loved_ one of them already."

"Don't say that," Jon scolded Arya, a frown marring his features. Arya blinked at the reprimand and sat up properly in her chair.

"You're thinking it right now," she said, her voice quiet with a grim realization. "You don't want to be, but the thought won't go away, will it?"

"Arya," Jon interrupted sharply. "Sansa isn't even in King's Landing. She's in Dragonstone."

"Ah, my mistake. In love with a southern _queen_ then."

Unsure if Arya was joking or not—her voice seemed full of odd inflection—Jon returned his attention to the raven scroll and couldn't help but groan with realization—Sansa had sent advanced warning in the form of a letter to ask Jon's opinion on the feasibility of a venture beyond the Wall. If neither king nor queen were willing to believe what the warde ness was saying, perhaps they would believe their own senses, she argued. Still, Jon didn't know why Tommen had sent Sansa a direct reply like this.

 _Lady Sansa,_

 _My advisors are looking forward to a parley with no mere anticipation, though I think Lord Tarly is more acutely expecting the North to fail to produce any proof of value. I hope that you can recover something, but I pray that whoever you send beyond the Wall takes care not to run afoul of whatever you fear._

 _Chaos reigns in the capitol still. With Mother under arrest, I've ordered the dungeons to be swept through. In just a few days, we've found dozens of prisoners unaccounted for in the records, and I fear that there will be many more. Political prisoners, kept and tortured illegally by my own mother…. I'm afraid that the damage I allowed her to do before Margaery's death is irreversible._

 _I'd be happy to meet with Daenerys Targaryen. I confess this to you alone that the longer this drama is drawn out, the less I want to be in it. I never wanted to be king. Perhaps if I meet her, if she's truly devoted to the people as you seem to hope she is, I'll be able to rest._

 _I hope Winterfell is as beautiful in the snow as you remembered it._

 _Tommen_

Almost immediately, Jon was painfully aware that this was not a letter intended for anyone but his sister. His eyes were drawn to the last paragraph and he felt an unwanted pang of sympathy for the boy king. He'd never wanted to be king, either.

"So is it from—"

"Someone who doesn't know that Sansa isn't home," Jon said decisively, rolling the scroll back up and flicking Arya on the nose. "Stop poking your nose where it doesn't belong, Lady Stark."

"Yes, King Snow," Arya replied with a scowl, though her eyes followed as Jon tucked the small scroll into a pocket.

* * *

Sansa wasn't a queen, but she didn't need permission to leave Dragonstone. Her home was a thousand miles away, and it was in trouble. Jon's reply had assured her that he was going to be on that ranging trip beyond the Wall regardless of anything she said, so she was needed in Winterfell to manage the keep while the King was away. Still, she prepared to leave slowly.

"There is nothing I can say to convince you to stay here longer, is there?"

At the question, Sansa smiled and turned to face the figure standing in her doorway.

"Lord Tyrion, if I didn't know you as I do, I'd think you would miss me."

"I—" Tyrion hesitated. Taking advantage of his silence, Sansa chuckled softly.

"Do you ever wonder?" she began slowly. "How things would have turned out, had even a single thing had gone differently?"

"Some days, that seems all I do," Tyrion assured her sadly. "I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are here, despite my failings."

"Tyrion—"

"I failed you, my lady," Tyrion continued. "I failed you in so many ways. And now, when you're finally before me again, we find ourselves on opposite factions once again… I hope that won't always be true. You make for a rather terrifying opponent."

Sansa took slow steps towards Tyrion, gauging his expression carefully until she knelt beside him, taking his hands in hers.

"Joffrey picked a rather inconvenient time to die, didn't he?" she asked cautiously. "I was getting rather fond of my lord husband."

"Sansa—"

Before Sansa's nerve could abandon her, she pressed a kiss to Tyrion's cheek, smiling sadly as she pulled away.

"You're not allowed to die in this war. Do you understand me?"

"I will do my best, my lady."

"Good… One day, we will not meet as adversaries. On that day, perhaps we will trade those stories."

"I hope so."

"Me too… May we meet again, my lord."

"May we meet again, Sansa."

Sansa got to her feet and, grabbing the letters that she'd become nearly famous for in Daenerys's small court, left Tyrion behind.

She wondered at the encounter all the way down the beach, hesitating and resolving not to turn back and explore what worlds might await her with Tyrion. She was no longer a child; she had concerns beyond Tyrion. The safety he once offered, and the sanctuary he had represented weren't real things anymore. She was wardeness of the North, and the North was calling her home.

It had to wait just a little longer, though, it would seem. Ser Davos, fulfilling his own mission in the capitol, was late. When he finally showed up, a stranger nearing Jon's age was at his side.

"Begging your pardon, my lady. This is—"

"Gendry, m'lady. I'm Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son," the boy corrected himself quickly. Sansa glanced behind him to see the exasperated look on Davos' face.

"He was meant to keep that to himself."

"Our fathers trusted each other. Why shouldn't we?" Gendry asked, seeming so open and honest that it startled Sansa to the core.

"I knew your father," Sansa found herself saying, half-impressed that she had managed to resist telling Gendry that his father had ordered Lady killed.

"I met yours in my shop," Gendry countered. Sansa leveled her gaze at the boy, sizing him up. "Ser Davos told me that a group is being sent North, my lady, and why. Let me go with them."

"Don't be a fool. You're not a soldier," Davos chided. Gendry shrugged, all passion and recklessness. Sansa could see the family resemblance.

"No, but I'm a fighter. And I've heard about Jon Snow's sword. He won't be needing a smith for that."

"As my father used to say, it's better to be a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life," Davos counseled urgently. Gendry smiled at the older man, clapping him on the back.

"I owe you my life. Twice over. But if what you said is true about what's out there, I can't wait out this war."

"A pleasure to have you, Gendry," Sansa greeted as Davos muttered to himself words that Sansa nearly missed in her continued shock at Gendry's expressiveness: _nobody mind me, all I've ever done is live to a ripe old age_. "Ser Davos, did you accomplish what you set out to do?"

"Of course. Appreciate the exercise, though the cargo wasn't quite as compliant as my usual fare," Davos said with a slight smile. Sansa only smiled as they were rowed out to the ship that would take them home.

* * *

Theon nearly ran through the halls of Dragonstone. He knew that he had missed Sansa's departure, but he would see her again if the war kept on as it did. There was someone that he needed to see with a much greater urgency.

Dragonstone didn't keep a maester. Its last maester had been called to march with Stannis when the Baratheon brought his family to the battlefield, and there hadn't been a real need for a replacement when the castle was left abandoned. Perhaps once the war was won the Citadel would deign to send another learned man to whisper in the lord of Dragonstone's ear, but for now the primary healers were Dothraki women who'd brought their herbal remedies with them across the sea. They had no formal training, but their skills were more than sharp enough to prescribe disgusting teas and cauterize wounds. The healing women had been granted quarters where the maester would traditionally live, and it was there where Theon hurried, turning corners and dancing around people that crossed his path until he flung a door open to see—

Yara. Cursing as a Dothraki woman shoved a cup of tea into her hands, refusing to drink and scowling every second. She was still bruised and Theon's eyes could trace when Euron's axe had been leveled against her neck when she had been captured, but she was here and she was whole.

"Yara?" His fucking voice cracked. What was he, some girl? Still, she turned at his voice, eyes going wide with recognition and suddenly she was on her feet. Her gait was unsteady, legs unsure, but she somehow made it halfway across the room before he had started to move. Crossing the rest of the distance in four large strides, he threw his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug as she shook against him. He wasn't sure which one of them started crying first, but the two stayed wrapped around each other until the tears began to abate.

"Guess it was your turn to rescue me, eh, little brother?"

"I guess it was," Theon laughed weakly. Euron was still out there, still a threat, but Yara was safe. Theon could hang the rest; his sister was here.

* * *

This had probably been a long time coming. There had been signs of it before—his defeat of a white walker, his theft of the family sword, his constant interruptions and questioning of the maesters—but Samwell Tarly realized that he was growing a spine. After years and years of his manhood and courage being questioned, he came to abruptly realization that he might be becoming the man his father had wanted as he loaded little Sam and Gilly onto a wagon.

Sam needed to act, not sit around. It was time for him to stop reading about the achievements of better men. Those men were dead, and Sam was alive. So long as little Sam and Gilly were alive, there was someone that he wanted—needed—to be a better man for.

Sam was done. He was done taking notes as learned men tore human bodies apart. He was done retching to clean chamber pots and bedpans. He was done rewriting the deeds and journals of long-dead men. Sam was a man of the Night's Watch, and the dead were coming. He was done with the Citadel, and Maester Meynard's 15,782 shits could count themselves.

* * *

The winds were favorable and the seas gentle—it was as if the old gods were trying to speed Sansa's journey home. With Davos' attention largely seized by Gendry, she was able to reflect on her meeting with Daenerys Targaryen in relative peace as they were brought safely into White Harbor and grant horses and a guard to escort them home to Winterfell.

Daenerys was not what she expected, but in the best of ways. She was fierce, but her ferocity did not come from her father or from the Targaryen madness. Her severity was borne of years of torment and had made her sorely empathetic to the people that the current system of power left without opportunity. She was resolved but her people, such as Missandei, were so devoted to Daenerys's peace that Sansa couldn't help but believe that there was a softness to the Dragon Queen. Sansa had seen the Mother of Dragons with her 'children;' she had to agree that Daenerys cared deeply and passionately.

With thoughts of Daenerys came thoughts of Tyrion, though she tried to resist them as they came upon her. Tyrion, who had been kind and passive in their ill-fated marriage, had been so proud to see her. It didn't strike her as the sort of false or condescending pride so many others had expressed when they learned that Sansa Stark was Wardeness of the North; this was a genuine joy at her success, and he wasn't shy to express his fear that her successes had come about despite his failures.

Her mind's recursive nature kept returning her thoughts to Tyrion despite her best efforts, and she was immeasurably glad that Davos and Gendry seemed at ease to keep up a discourse for much of the journey until they were safely through Winterfell's gates.

Winterfell wasn't quite as she'd left it—there were a few barrels of what she presumed was grain left in the cold and the snows hadn't been properly cleared from the walls yet—but it was home. She was scarcely within its walls before being greeted by a decent crowd. That concerned Sansa somewhat—who alerted Winterfell of their precise arrival—but her worries were smoothed away when she recalled the strange letters Jon had written to her regarding Bran's state of mind. If he saw visions, it was unsurprising that there was a party waiting to receive her.

A party that included Jon and Arya both.

"Arya!" Sansa's arms found their way first to Arya, hugging the girl so tightly that Arya struggled to breathe for a brief moment. "You're safe! Brienne sent me a raven when she got to King's Landing saying that she passed you, and Jon sent word when you were safely home, but I—"

"I'm home," Arya said simply. Sansa threw her arms around her sister once more, eyes seeking Jon out. She hugged Jon more calmly, having seen him recently, but a worried frown marred her features.

"Jon. What's in those barrels?"

"Something that should likely be out of the snow," Jon muttered after a brief moment to glance where Sansa had gestured. "Can you be home for at least two minutes before telling me what I'm doing wrong?"

"I suppose not, King Snow… King Jon?" Sansa asked, suddenly unsure of what Jon's proper name should be. Neither seemed to fit quite right. Either way, Sansa's musings were interrupted when Arya stiffened dramatically as the rest of Sansa's travelling party came forward.

"G-Gendry?!" the youngest Stark stared at the bastard smith in shock, an expression mirrored by the older boy before a grin split his features.

"M'lady," Gendry said, a teasing lilt to his voice, and Sansa was awash with confusion.

With Jon and Yohn's help, Sansa successfully guided everyone inside, gathering everyone in the solar that Jon had left a proper mess. Before moving to sort out what Jon had done with her once-beautifully organized office space, Sansa turned her attention to Gendry.

"You know my sister?"

"Aye, m'lady."

"Gendry left King's Landing with Yoren's group," Arya said as if that explained anything. It made some sense to Jon, apparently, who nodded. "We were captured by the Brotherhood without Banners, and we got separated."

"They sold me to the Red Woman—"

"The Priestess Melisandre," Davos explained helpfully.

And the tale was told in the most complicated, staggered narrative Sansa had ever heard. At the end of the discussion, though, one thing became clear to the Lady Stark: Gendry had earned her trust long ago, without his father's name or skill with a hammer.

* * *

Snow fell in the courtyard, already inches deep despite the burning braziers. Servants were working to clear the snow that had already fallen, and Arya watched it all with a dispassionate frown.

"Father used to watch us from up here. He wouldn't say much. You probably don't remember. You were inside knitting all the time," Arya murmured softly as Sansa approached from behind her, coming to join her on the balcony.

"I remember."

"One time the boys were shooting arrows with Ser Rodrick. I came out here after and Bran had left his bow behind, just lying on the ground. Ser Rodrick would have cuffed him if he saw. There was one arrow in the target. There was no one around, just like now. No one to stop me. So I started shooting. And every shot I had to go out there and get my one arrow and walk back and shoot it again. I wasn't very good. Finally, I hit the bullseye. It could have been the 20th shot or the 50th. I don't remember. But I hit the bullseye and I heard this." As Sansa watched, Arya began to clap slowly. Sansa's throat constricted. "I looked up and he's standing right here smiling down at me. I knew what I was doing was against the rules. But he was smiling so I knew it wasn't wrong. The rules were wrong. I was doing what I was meant to be doing and he knew it. Now he's dead… killed by the Lannisters with your help."

Sansa started at the sudden shift. Of all the times for Arya to confront her on this, it had to be just days after Jon left for the true north. Sansa was doomed.

"What?" She watched, horror growing, as Arya retrieved a raven scroll from her pocket and unrolled it. The moment Sansa saw her script on the scroll, her stomach turned.

"That's your pretty handwriting. Septa Mordane used to crack my knuckles because I couldn't write as well as you… _Robb, I write to you today with a heavy heart—_ "

"You don't have to read it." Sansa's voice was whisper-soft as Arya continued.

" _Our good king Robert is dead. Killed from wounds he took in a boar hunt_ —"

"I remember it." She was a child again, sitting in that awful, sunny room with that too-cold, beautiful woman. Robert and Cersei had deserved each other, truly. They both deserved to be miserable.

" _Father has been charged with treason. He conspired with Robert's brothers—_ "

" _Against my beloved Joffrey_ ," Sansa finished, tears in her eyes. She wasn't sure if the tears were from shame or anger. "I _remember_ it."

"And still you wrote."

A different Sansa might have tried to deny it, might have insisted that she had no choice. Sansa knew that wasn't true though. She had always had a choice.

"I did," she confessed. That seemed to throw Arya for a loop, but the younger Stark regained her steam quickly.

"You don't have any sort of defense? Nothing to say for yourself?"

"No," Sansa confirmed, the word ash in her mouth. "I was a stupid girl who trusted the wrong person and Father was killed for it. Is that what you'd like to hear? That I might as well have swung the ax myself? That Father is dead, and it is my fault. Whatever you'd like me to say, whatever you want to hear from me, I'm sure I've already said it to myself."

"I remember you standing on that platform with Joffrey and Cersei when they dragged Father to the block. I remember the pretty dress you were wearing that day. I remember the fancy way you did your hair." Sansa's heart skipped a beat painfully and she bowed her head. Arya—tiny, obnoxious, fiery Arya—had been there. "I was there, standing in the crowd near Baelor's statue."

"And then you were gone," Sansa found herself saying. "We both made choices, and I've had years of people telling me that I'm a stupid little girl to get over them. I stood on that platform, and you stood at that statute, but we both stood there. Neither of us ran up and fought Ser Ilyn off when he came for Father's head."

"I didn't betray him. I didn't betray Robb. I didn't betray our entire family for my _beloved_ Joffrey!"

"No, you didn't. And you didn't see Father's head on its spike, next to Septa Mordane's… I don't know what you had to do to stand here, but you don't know what I had to do either. We're standing in Winterfell again because of me. You didn't win it back. Jon didn't win it back. He lost the Battle of the Bastards. The Knights of the Vale won the battle, and they rode north for me while you were who knows where."

"I was training."

"Training… Well, while you were training, I was surrounded by our family's murderers. I was sold to the man who butchered Robb and Mother. I was beaten, tortured, raped in these very walls. But I am still here."

"For now," Arya agreed quietly. "But that can be fixed, can't it? After all, this… this makes you nervous. I wonder why… Jon wouldn't care, of course. Not Jon. He'd understand. You were just a scared little girl… But the northern lords? They wouldn't think much of you if they'd known you'd done Cersei's bidding. Would you tell little Lyanna Mormont, younger than you were, that you were just a child?"

"Tell them. Tell them that their wardeness was once a stupid girl who believed in a southern ruler. They served a southern ruler too, same as me. Many of them served the Boltons. And when you tell them, remind them that Winterfell needs their grain. We're going to hole up here anyway. We might as well get all of the food and the gossip out before the white walkers get here."

It was a dare, and a foolish one at that, but Sansa hoped against all hope that she'd called Arya's bluff as she walked away. This entire interrogation savored strongly of Baelish—she needed time and distance away from Arya to properly investigate the matter.

* * *

Tommen had long since grown so tired of large affairs. In a crowd, he needed to be a king. His mourning was secondary to the suffering of his people—and he knew that would remain the truth as long as he was king—but there were some moments that he needed to be just Tommen. The finishing of the gardens where the Sept of Baelor once stood was one such moment.

It still hadn't been named as Tommen prepared for the day, dressing in black as had become his custom. The lightest color on him, tucked carefully into his breast pocket, was a grey silk handkerchief that he found himself carrying often. It was comforting in ways that the portraits that had been of her weren't; this was made by someone who had known her heart. With Margaery's image close to his heart, he set out with the smallest procession his father would allow, with just Jaime and Ser Balon at his side. Tommen didn't fear the streets between the Red Keep and the Sept as his brother once had, though. King's Landing's impoverished were finally being cared for, as Margaery had wanted. Its sick were being treated, its cold clothed. Tommen had nothing to fear from the people.

He walked the long road, knowing with each step that he backtracked along the path that his mother's walk of atonement had followed. The mobs that had once cursed his family name were now dispersed as its people lived and worked as best they could. The people parted, bowing and murmuring greetings as the trio moved deeper into the city.

Tommen's steps carried him to where the Sept that Was had stood, but the scent greeted him before the sight of it did. Breaking the stink of the city, a gentle sweetness filled the air, emanating away from the site, and Tommen walked faster.

Trellises were set up for roses, but they would not bloom with winter beginning now. Perhaps he would order glass gardens to be made, so that the city would never be without roses again, but for now winter-blooming flowers filled the places between the clean, white walkways. Heather, aconites, daffodils, snowdrops, and flowers Tommen had no names for lent their bright colors to the grey city, contrasting sharply with the rich soil and marble paths. Small trees, hardly more than saplings, were planted among the flowers. Tommen could almost see how the garden would look when spring finally arrived. His feet carried him deeper into the gardens, his mind whispering to him the details of the finalized plans, until he came to a stop before a rough-hewn stone altar. Images of the Seven were carved into the altar's front, and simple stone slabs served for benches before it. Behind the altar, a trellis for roses stood tall, its wooden spokes shaped into a seven-pointed star.

The silence hung heavily in the garden and Tommen cleared his throat, looking to Balon.

"Have the City Watch open the gardens."

"Yes, your grace," Balon acquiesced, bowing his head and disappearing. A heavy hand came to rest upon Tommen's shoulder and he sent his father a watery smile.

"I think she'd be proud." The words tumbled from Jaime before he could reign them in, but they were earnestly meant. Tommen's smile strengthened ever so slightly. If this garden would be preserved as a place for the city to come and mourn, a place for them to grow stronger for it, Tommen would be proud to have this as his legacy.

"I hope so."

The words hung between them in the air as people began flitting through the gardens, exploring this new space. Quiet murmurs began to break the silence, and Tommen turned to leave. There was still work to be done.

* * *

Updated 17:12, 3.12.19


	13. Chapter 13

Jon resisted the urge to laugh as Gendry shivered violently beside him.

"You alright? Haven't been north before?"

"Never seen snow before," Gendry confirmed. Tormund came up from behind them, breathing in deeply through his nose.

"Beautiful, eh? I can breathe again," he declared. "Down south the air smells like pig shit."

"You've never been south," Jon commented, amused at Tormund's prompt confusion.

"I've been to Winterfell," he countered. Jon shook his head, recognizing the battle as lost before it began.

"How d'you keep your balls from freezing off?"

"You've got to keep moving; that's the secret. Walking's good, fighting's better, fucking's best."

"There's not a living woman within a hundred miles of here," Jon reminded Tormund. The warrior shrugged, looking between Gendry and Jon thoughtfully.

"We've got to make do with what we've got." When Gendry didn't follow his meaning enough to fight him, Tormund rolled his eyes. "This one is maybe not so smart."

"Davos says he's a strong fighter," Jon assured him. Tormund nodded as if Jon had given him some ancient wisdom.

"Good. That's more important than being smart. Smart people don't come here looking for the dead…"

Jon listened to the conversations happening around him. Somehow, between Winterfell and Eastwatch by the Sea, he'd picked up the most motley crew imaginable. How everyone seemed to know—and hate—each other defied logic, but he forced himself to focus on keeping one foot in front of the other. This mission didn't require them to like each other or get along too well. They needed to find the dead.

In that regard, they could be considered lucky. Beyond the Wall, the dead reigned.

Jon only hoped that the raven they'd brought—a 'safety' measure Sansa had insisted upon—survived the cold long enough to be useful if they needed it. Personally, he wasn't too sure that any of them would survive the cold once night came.

* * *

"You know what I like about you?"

The question came from out of nowhere as Tyrion reclined by the fire. It felt like months since Sansa had left, and he'd found himself uneasy without her presence in Dragonstone. It hadn't been that long, of course—they'd just received a raven to alert them that Sansa had made it safely to Winterfell and that the expedition beyond the Wall would begin shortly thereafter—but Tyrion's interest in battle making and world building felt decidedly lacking since his once-wife had left.

"I honestly don't," he found himself saying. He couldn't really say what anyone liked about him. Sure, he was clever. He liked to think that he was cleverer than most. But that wasn't an unusual character trait. Other than his cleverness, he didn't have much to offer. The money and influence the Lannister name had provided him was lost, he had no lands, and, if they lost this war, he was sure to lose his head as well.

"You're not a hero."

"Oh… Well, I've been heroic on occasion. I once charged the Mud Gate at King's Landing—"

"I don't _want_ you to be hero. Heroes do stupid things and they die… Drogo, Jorah, Daario… They all try to outdo each other, to see who can do the stupidest, bravest thing… I know you're brave. I wouldn't have chosen a coward as my Hand."

"But?"

"Is your mind where it should be?" Daenerys asked pointedly, sitting back in her own chair. Tyrion raised an eyebrow at the question. "If all goes well, I'll be meeting your nephew soon. I will need your mind here. Your sister is more inclined to murder me than to speak to me. I cannot believe that her son is much different."

"Nobody trusts my sister less than I do, believe me… But Tommen is the one who imprisoned her. If we go to the capital, we go with two armies. We go with three dragons. If anyone touches you, King's Landing burns down to the foundation stones… But I don't believe Tommen would risk the lives of everyone in King's Landing for a shot at you."

"And if he does? If he's laying a trap right now? Are we laying any traps?" the Dragon Queen asked. Tyrion, seeing her face lit only by the fire, remembered how young she truly was. She was nearly Sansa's age and, while they both had been through so much, at least Sansa was only attempting to rule one kingdom for now. He chose his next words carefully.

"If we want to create a new and better world, I'm not sure deceit and mass murder is the way to start."

"Which war was won without deceit and mass murder?" Daenerys asked sardonically.

"Yes, we need to be ruthless. You need to inspire a certain degree of fear. But fear is all people like Cersei have. It's all Joffrey had, all my father had, all _your_ father had. It makes their power brittle because everyone beneath them longs to see them dead. If Varys's reports are true, Tommen does not have only fear. He has the compassion of the people of King's Landing because they see him mourning alongside them. They see what he's trying to do to make their lives better, and they appreciate him. If we disrupt their lives for the poorer, they will see you as an invader, not a liberator."

"Aegon Targaryen got quite a long way on fear."

"He did, yes. But you once spoke to me of breaking the wheel. Aegon built a wheel. If that's the kind of queen you want to be, how are you different from all the other tyrants that came before you?"

"So we walk into the lion's den."

"We won't walk alone. The North will be there. Sansa's promised to join us in King's Landing, even if she won't bend the knee."

"A fact that you seem incredibly comfortable about… Is your mind where it should be, serving your queen, or is it further North? One could be forgiven for thinking you're taking her side in this debate."

"I am taking her side, and Tommen's. You _need_ to take your opponent's side if you're going to see things the way they do. And you're going to need to see the way they do if you're going to respond effectively and beat them. Which I want you to do, very much, because I believe in you and the world you want to build. But the world you want to build doesn't get built all at once. Probably not in a single lifetime. How do we ensure that your vision endures? After we break the wheel, how do we make sure it stays broken?"

"You want to know who sits on the Iron Throne after I'm dead," Daenerys said with grim realization, turning to face Tyrion slowly, an unreadable expression on her face. Her voice was dangerously calm and Tyrion swallowed.

"You say you can't have children, but there are other ways of choosing a successor. The Night's Watch has one method. The Ironborn, for all their many flaws, have another."

"We will discuss the succession after I wear the crown."

"Your grace, it takes only one lucky idiot to end your life. I'm trying to serve you by planning for the long term—"

"Perhaps if you had planned for the short term, we wouldn't have lost Dorne and Highgarden. We will discussion the succession _after_ I wear the crown."

* * *

Sansa wasn't a fool. She couldn't avoid Baelish forever, even if she was certain that he was involved in her sister's current attitude. She, for better or for worse, understood how Baelish's little mind worked; she needed to keep him preoccupied while she continued investigating how Arya had come across a raven scroll that, by all accounts, should have been buried in Maester Luwin's old records.

"You called for me, my lady?" Baelish asked so eagerly Sansa's calm mask nearly faltered. Nearly.

"Lord Baelish, thank you. I—I don't know how, but Arya… She found something that may destabilize what we've built here. A scroll that I wrote to Robb under duress before my father's execution."

"Where did she get it?" Baelish questioned, all concern.

"I don't know."

"She seems very resourceful… You're worried."

"We're asking 20,000 men to fight with us in the worst winter any of them have ever seen. The weather will be the least of their problem, and many of them would be happy to find a good reason to go home."

"You question their loyalty?"

"Their loyalty is to Jon, who's gone off on a potentially suicidal mission."

"You're the Lady of Winterfell. The King chose you to rule in his absence and rule you have. Wisely, ably." Baelish was too close— _too close_ —but Sansa remained standing where she was at the hearth. "They respect you. Some may even prefer you…"

"Yes, they turned their back on Jon when it was time to retake Winterfell and then they name him their king. Now they're ready to turn their backs on him again. How far would you trust me like that? They're all bloody wind vanes…" Sansa forced her voice to quicken, cast her eyes down in anger. It was dangerous to attempt to play a man like Petyr Baelish, but Tyrion's words echoed in her mind: _you make for a rather terrifying opponent_. If the hand to Daenerys Targaryen thought so, this worm was nothing. "If they found out I wrote that letter—me, a woman who's already married not one but _two_ enemies of her house… By the time Jon returns, he'll have no army left."

"She's your sister. You may have disagreements, but she would never betray her family."

"She would if she thought I was going to betray Jon."

"Is that what she thinks?"

"I don't know what she thinks. I don't know her anymore…"

"If it were my place, I would counsel patience. It has been my experience that an impulsive opponent becomes predictable if given time."

"Yes… Thank you, Lord Baelish. If you'll excuse me…"

"Of course. You have much work to do, Lady Stark."

Sansa resisted the urge to pull her hand from the snake's hand when he seized it, bringing it to his lips to brush his lips against her knuckles. She smiled weakly at him, breathing a sigh of relief when the door was shut behind him and she was alone in the sanctuary of her solar.

Petyr Baelish needed to be removed from Winterfell immediately.

* * *

It had been supposed to be a short trip. They were supposed to travel only a day or two north of the wall, find a small scouting party, separate one wight from the pack, and run the hell south. Jon didn't know how the fuck they ended up here.

It had been simple enough of a plan, even if Sansa had hated it. Jon, Gendry, and Jorah would go north. They'd pick up whatever men at Eastwatch were dumb enough to follow them and go beyond the wall. They'd travel two days out, scope out a scouting party, ambush it, and take one wight and scarper back behind the Wall before anything was the wiser. No good plan survived contact with the enemy, though. They'd been attacked by a bear that would have eaten Ghost for breakfast, fought a band of wights that had come with their own white walker, and hadn't managed to get away as cleanly as they had hoped.

The silence before battle was renowned as an unsteadying experience. Now, staring across the water to see the dead surrounding them, Jon understood that fear in a very real way. He could only hope that the raven they'd sent off—and _gods_ he would never make fun of Sansa's need to prepare contingencies again—made it safely to Dragonstone. If the raven didn't make it, they were dead. More meat for the army of the dead.

The wights and walkers stared hungrily at them as the captured wight snarled and screamed against its bindings. Sandor kicked it again, cursing under his breath, and Jon winced.

He wondered if that wight, when it had been a man, had seen his death coming. Jon hoped not. It wasn't a fate he'd wish on anyone.

Posted 17:37, 10.4.18

Updated 17:16, 3.12.19


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Just a quick side note, during my unplanned hiatus, I went through the previous chapters and did some surface revising for grammar, and rearranged a few scenes. Nothing I changed alters the previous momentum of the plot so it's not necessary to go back and reread what I've written but I did add a couple of scenes to make, for example, Petyr's trial flow better within the narrative. Thank you for reading!

* * *

Tycho Nestoris was a shrewd man, an attribute that was necessary to be a worthwhile instrument of the Iron Bank. While the crown had come into the money needed to pay their debts under what others may deem questionable circumstances, the Iron Bank didn't care for sentiment. House Tyrell meant nothing to Tycho, but their gold did, and it was that simple.

Tommen I hadn't intended for his debts to be resolved in such a manner, but that didn't matter. The gold had been transferred from Tommen's holdings to Tycho's protection. Tommen's debts, interests included, were paid in full. When the arithmetic across the Narrow Sea didn't match his own… That was a matter that concerned Tycho immensely.

He was, again, a shrewd man. Tommen was the grandson of Tywin Lannister; the boy knew the power and the might of the Iron Bank. He wouldn't dare kick that hornet's nest, especially so soon after finally casting off the arrears of the crown. It was no secret that Daenerys Targaryen had lost her armada in a sea battle against Euron Greyjoy's fleet; while Daenerys, as a revolutionary and an abolitionist was bad for business, the fault did not lie with her. Similarly, the North's quest for independence wasn't a matter that would call for resources in the way of gold just as Dorne had no need for gold if there was no ruling faction.

And so, there was Euron Greyjoy. Euron Greyjoy was a moderately known associate of Cersei Lannister, a woman rapidly becoming famous for her short temper and dimming intelligence. He had the ships, he had the desire for the things that that much gold could buy, and he had mysteriously vanished just before Cersei Lannister's arrest. Tycho was not a lawman, but he had more than a passing familiarity with motive, means, and opportunity.

The Iron Bank did not make bets. It did, however, make investments in opportunities that may yield future growth, and Tycho could see endless potential for a healthy relationship between the Iron Bank and whoever brought Euron Greyjoy's head to him.

When whispers reached Tommen—when it became clear that the likeliest perpetrator was Euron Greyjoy—a small council meeting was called. Randyll was unsurprised by the Greyjoy's idiocy, and was glad that Tycho knew the crown to be honest with their debts. Thena emerged with whispers that Euron and Cersei may have been in league. Tylan counseled that staying Cersei's trial in favor of uncovering whatever she plotted may be profitable. If they could determine Euron's next step, they could recover the gold before it was spent. It was always good to be favored by the Iron Bank.

Still, the whispers of the Iron Bank's displeasure spread quickly, first from the Red Keep and then through King's Landing. Murmurs of it echoed even across the Blackwater, where Yara still licked her wounds.

She fully intended on taking Euron's head. If she could get something more for her trouble—like build the relationship between her queen and the Iron Bank—who was she to deny the Drowned God's will? She'd still pay the iron price; Euron was hers to kill.

* * *

Daenerys nearly didn't react when she was told a raven had come to Dragonstone. She was so used to Sansa and Varys receiving messages that she'd hardly known what it felt like when a message came for her. Still, when she saw the emblem of House Stark on a hastily rolled scroll, her heart clenched painfully.

Sansa had spoken of her brother often when she had been kept at Dragonstone. Daenerys had been curious of the man now known as King in the North, and Sansa had been happy to reminisce as Tyrion poured wine and sat beside her at the fireplace. Reading the scroll quickly, seeing the words that were so blunt and abrasive that they must have been this Jon Snow's, Daenerys knew that the North would be lost to her forever if she didn't answer this call. Sansa Stark, for all her honor and pride, would never allow a Northern lord to kneel to the Mother of Dragons if she didn't attempt to save this bastard.

She was nearly gone when Tyrion caught up to her. He was a good Hand, but this was something she needed to do.

"The most important person in the world can't fly off to the most dangerous place in the world!" he argued.

"Who else can?"

"No one. They knew the risks when they left. You can't win the throne if you're dead. You can't break the wheel if you're dead."

"So what would you have me do?"

"Nothing Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do. If you die, we're all lost. Everyone, everything."

"If it was Sansa that went North, and not this Snow, would you ask me to do nothing?"

As Tyrion said nothing, Daenerys climbed her way onto Drogon's back. He said nothing still as the Mother of Dragons flew off towards the horizon.

* * *

Theon did not share Yara's gift of clarity. Whereas Yara always seemed to simply _see_ her path unfolding ahead of her, the road before Theon was littered with half-visible obstacles and dark with a heavy, oppressive fog. There was so much self-doubt weighing him down, after all his innumerable mistakes, that he was shocked to see firm resolution in others. When Yara had so forcefully declared that she would hunt Euron past the horizon—that she would deliver his head to the Iron Bank and the rest of his body back to the sea—it was as if a hammer had struck at the core of him, echoing metallic towards his fingertips.

There was a modicum of sense in the plan, he'd admit. After all that he'd done, killing Euron would be extremely satisfying. More than that, Yara's sworn loyalty strove her to serve Daenerys as best she could. If Daenerys would safely deliver the Iron Islands, Yara would deliver the rest of the kingdoms. The kingdoms weren't just land and peasantry, though; the kingdoms—the administration itself—needed gold as a beast needed blood and food. The Iron Bank, for lack of a better sponsor, had been a reliable lender of coin that was still desperately needed. Even if the parley that Sansa and Tyrion were plotting went well, there would always be a war to fight against the dead if not the Lannisters.

Memories flickered in his mind's eye as Yara continued preparing to leave. The once-mighty fleet Yara had stolen and built for Daenerys was a mockery of what it had once been; of the hundreds of ships she'd once had in her stead, now four or five remained. As Yara flung a pack over her shoulder, Theon saw Euron bring his axe to her neck again.

He shrugged the memories off as best he could, shaking as if he could fling the images away as a dog does water, Theon laid a hand on his sister's arm.

"You can't stop me, little brother," were the first words out of her mouth. Of course they were. That was what Theon was to her: a hinderance. Since he'd first been reunited with her—hell, since he set foot on Pike after so many years at his brother-king's behest, _a brother he'd betrayed_ —Theon had been wrongfooted and incompetent whenever Yara was involved. At first, he had thought he was simply proud of his Ironborn heritage—that it was his birthright to take Winterfell for the glory of his house. Now, with the bitter sting of hindsight, Theon knew that he had been dangerously jealous. He'd resented Yara once for being everything that he had sought to be. Now, as she was set to leave again, poised to pay the iron price to push her destiny forward, Theon was so proud to call Yara his sister that it ached. Pride wouldn't help keep her safe, though. He didn't want her to leave. He didn't want her hurt, which was sure to happen if she went after Euron so ill-prepared.

"I—I don't want to stop you. I want you to stop yourself and think."

"Theon—"

"Yara," he interrupted, voice broken and jagged like shattered glass. "He's beat us—beat you—once already. You need to think about what you're doing if you're going to beat him."

" _I_ need to think? Theon, I won't sit on my ass like a scared fucking whelp while Euron is half a world away doing who knows what! He's not gone, and neither are his ships, and we'll all be vulnerable until his body's gone cold."

"You don't have the ships—"

"Once he's dead, I think I'll have quite a few ships."

"This isn't a joke, Yara! You're going to die!" His voice rose of its own accord, the panic returning. He blinked to keep the smoke from creeping out of his mind, to stop his eyes from tracing the thin lines of blood that had once run down his sister's battle-grimed face.

"Not the first time someone's thought that about me." She was joking. She thought this was a joke. An invasive thought murmured to Theon that he once would have made a similar joke, when he was less damaged, and he shoved that thought away.

"You'll get caught!" The words desperately leapt from his throat, ripping him raw on their way out. Yara's eyes narrowed dangerously and Theon's heart—or what was left of it after all those years—tightened painfully.

"It wouldn't be the first time, little brother." Yara's voice was suddenly cold and a violent tremor wracked Theon's shoulders. All his attempts at maintaining his composure dissolved with that spasm. As his breathing hitched and his heart squeezed tighter and his vision began to blur, Theon distantly became aware that his fingernails had begun to cut crescents into the palm of his free hand, his fist was clenched so tight.

Yara closed her eyes, a pained look flitting across her face as Theon's control lapsed. She wasn't mad that Theon had run from Euron, but a heaviness had settled in her heart whenever she thought of the broken creature her brother had become. It had started before Winterfell—she suspected that being raised by his brothers' killers had some ill effect—but Ramsay had taken the cracks and scratches Theon had borne quietly and tugged and pried them further apart, placing stress and upset onto the weakest areas of his mind until he shattered under the weight of it all. Yara had nearly convinced herself that Theon had been healing—hadn't he almost made a joke before they were attacked?—but she was beginning to wonder if that had been a wistful creation of her mind. Theon was broken, perhaps beyond repair.

Her fists clenched at her sides. He might be broken, but that was her brother. Her _little_ brother. No matter his convoluted idealisms of women, it was clear from the first that he was hers' to protect. She had failed to protect him before—from their father, Ramsay, himself—but she'd be damned if he cracked further because of pressure she'd given him.

She lowered the pack to the ground, her other hand crossing her chest to rest on the hand Theon had perhaps thoughtlessly left on her arm. His hand was clammy in hers, but she tightened her grip on it. When she spoke, her voice was softer than Theon had ever heard it.

"You don't want me to go," she murmured. "I understand. But both of us and the rest of our people are in danger every second he's free out there. You think that he'll keep his head down just because Cersei's arrested? If he thinks there's a chance in hell that he could turn it around, he'd take it. Me staying here doesn't mean he can't touch me, or you. Maybe you're right, that we need to think this out more, but I can't sit here waiting to be hit."

"He'll hurt you." The words slipped carelessly from Theon, almost incoherently. Yara nodded slowly, a sad smile on her face.

"He'll certainly try. But I've got this really annoying brother to take care of, so I'll make sure he doesn't hurt me too much." Theon didn't register the joke, and perhaps that was her fault since it wasn't a strong attempt. Still, Yara worried. "I won't go… Not just yet. But I can't sit here forever, Theon, and neither can you. It's not just me he's after."

"More important." Hardly more than a mumble, Yara struggled to decipher Theon's garbled words. When she did, or when she was at least mostly certain she did, she scowled and shoved his shoulder away from her.

"Idiot. Cut the crap or I'm heading out!" She threw a smile onto her face as quickly as she could when Theon's wide eyes turned to her face in horror and panic. At the smile, he seemed to relax a bit and Yara chuckled before growing serious again. "If I'm not leaving this damn island, I'm at least going to the kitchens. Care to join?"

Leaving her bag where it sat in her doorway, Yara let Theon follow after her to the kitchens. She wasn't hungry, and she suspected he'd only eat if forced after an episode like that, but the walk would do him good. At least she hoped it would.

* * *

Sansa was used to receiving visitors in the solar—the space that had once belonged to her father, and his father before him all the way back to Torren Stark. Most had the courtesy to knock, or announce their entry in some way, but Sansa supposed that Arya existed to defy all boundaries, so she wasn't surprised when she turned to see her younger sister staring at her from the opened doorway. Despite still being short for her age, Arya was every inch a northerner, and Sansa felt a strange pang of emotion as those dark eyes—eyes that looked so like their father's—bore into hers with something hard, something cold.

"You're leaving Winterfell." It wasn't a question, but there was a strange lilt to Arya's voice, as if she didn't quite believe the rumors. Sansa finished packing away the last fold of papers—letters from lords requesting more from her in exchange for less—that would need answering before they arrived at King's Landing.

"Yes. The parley between King Tommen and Queen Daenerys is taking place in King's Landing soon and I must go to speak for the North's interests."

"You're leaving the North." The same questioning inflection was in Arya's voice. Apparently, Sansa hadn't answered the question satisfactorily.

"For the North to survive this winter, it needs all its people to play to their strengths. Politics, meeting with two people who both want the North to return under their rule… Those are things that I can do." Sansa paused. Eyes glancing down at Needle—the tiny little switch of a blade that Arya refused to relinquish, no matter how 'safe' those around her proclaimed her to be—Sansa quirked a sad smile. "After all, I can't pick up a sword to fight for the North like you and Jon can."

"You've never needed a sword, have you? You and your pretty words…" The younger Stark girl stalked forward towards her sister and Sansa had to resist the urge to reach for her dagger. This was her sister. She could still salvage this; at least she hoped she could. "Always able to twist, to convince other people to die instead of you. That's always what happens, isn't it?"

"I never told anyone to die for me."

"Liar. You said it yourself: the Knights of the Vale rode here for you. But not all of them survived the Battle of the Bastards. Your pretty words don't stop the war, they just make it so it doesn't touch your skirts."

"I didn't order the Knights to ride north. Baelish is their lord."

"But you hold Baelish's reins," Arya hissed and a cruel laugh escaped Sansa, ripping its way free of her throat.

"Do I? I control the man who threw Aunt Lysa out of the Moon Door to consolidate power in the Vale? I control the man who sold me to the Boltons, knowing full well what R—what Ramsay was?" Sansa took a deep breath as Arya stood in silence, still just _watching_ with that same heavy, eerie gaze. "Believe me, Arya, I'd like nothing more than to be rid of him. But I can't. Jon needs the Knights of the Vale, so we need Petyr."

"You're saying…"

"I'm _asking_ you to be careful. Jon said that he was quieter when I was gone to Dragonstone, but he's afraid of Jon. He's a clever snake, but he might not know to be afraid of you yet. He might still try to manipulate you, to use you."

"It's what he did to Father." Both girls jumped at the new voice, turning to see Bran, sitting peacefully in his chair just at the doorway. "It's been long enough. We need to talk."

* * *

After a lifetime in Essos, Daenerys hadn't ever really experienced cold. As she and her children passed over the Wall, though, she couldn't deny the chill that was beginning to settle in her bones despite her closeness to Drogon. She clung to him closer, resisting the urge to shiver as she wondered just sort of man could survive in such a harsh environment. As they pushed further and further north, and the howling of the wind began to be lost as the sounds of screams grew closer, the chill settled in her heart.

Her fears should not have been directed at a man who could survive in this environment. As the scene began to unfold beneath her, it was the men that _couldn't_ survive the cold that deserved fear.

Thousands of them. There could have been fifty thousand or a hundred, she'd never know. Even from Drogon's back they filled the landscape, blanketing the snowy ground with partially-decayed and still-screaming bodies that moved and pulsed towards a center point. In the center, on a lone rock against the waves of the dead, six figures lunged and fought. An unexpected glimpse of fire forced Daenerys to blink and she swallowed past the mass that had grown in her throat.

" _Drakarys_."

The biggest concern was getting the dead away from the living but there were so many. When it became clear that they, even with three dragons, wouldn't win this fight, Daenerys directed Drogon to land. The sight of Jorah rushing to her side again relieved just a bit of the cold surrounding her, but the relief was short-lived as the wights pushed towards them again. One of the men—a dark haired man she'd never met—rushed to meet the wight with a stupid ferocity that told Daenerys who he was. This man, with his Valyrian steel sword and blatant disregard for his own safety, was the brother of Sansa Stark, the King in the North.

There was a scream above her. Daenerys's head whipped around as the scream echoed in her ears in time to see Viserion—her sweet boy—plummeting towards the earth in a rain of fire and blood. He tried to catch himself, wings pushing uselessly against the air as he fell, but he collided hard with the ice and rock, shattering the thick layer of ice that had built up on the lake.

 _Viserion_.

A choked sound escaped Daenerys's throat, one hand raising towards her fallen child, but it was far too late. Viserion, eyes closed, began to slip beneath the ice as silence rang out for a long moment on the battlefield around him.

She couldn't move. She could hardly breathe. _Viserion_.

Another clang of a sword as the wights began to snarl and scream.

"Go!" Jon Snow cried out. Behind him, the Night King accepted a javelin of ice from another white walker. "Leave, now!"

Jon tried to push back towards Drogon, but the Night King's weapon was readied. Drogon took off, the javelin barely missing his side, as the wights tackled Jon Snow into the icy water.

Propelled away by Drogon's powerful wings, the dead soon fell out of sight. As the group grew more and more distant, so did Daenerys's shock begin to fall away.

She had failed. Her child was dead. Jon Snow was as good as dead, if he wasn't already. The dead were marching on the living.

Sansa had told her once that they had needed each other. As Daenerys choked another sob back, the numbness pervading every sense of her being, she wished she had listened.

* * *

Posted 17:21, 3.12.19


End file.
